


Bound

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Bound [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Kink, Humor, Knifeplay, M/M, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Scarification, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What about submission?”</p><p>Q stopped and turned to look at Bond.</p><p>Frowning, Bond asked, “Is that a ‘no’?”</p><p>“Not at all. Let me explain.” Q took a moment, organising his thoughts properly. “I have a ridiculously stressful job. I make so many decisions — not just what to have for dinner or whether you should be sent to Australia or Iran. Big decisions that affect not just lives but the state of nations.” He paused. “I just need to be taken out of my head sometimes. And however you can do that for me, I’m a willing participant.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to our lovely betas, in random order: Snogandagrope, Mitaya, CousinCecily, Jennybel75, Reluctantabandon, Eryn, and Cody Thomas! We couldn't have done this without you guys.
> 
> ~~~

The firing ranges at MI6 were one level above the Q Branch tunnels, tucked away behind an airlock of reinforced glass. One door wouldn’t open until the other one closed, and the range doors along the hallway leading to the individual ranges — automatic weapons, high-powered explosives, sniper weapons, and handguns — were all biometrically controlled. Range hours were strictly scheduled due to high demand; only a very few people could override pre-booking and shoot whenever they wanted.

Two such people walked the hallway past the airlock to the handgun range. They could have been cousins, separated by two inches of height, each with sun-gold hair and tanned skin in defiance of London’s customary overcast. Both were broad-shouldered and walked with the easy grace of a predator resting between hunts.

The description was eerily accurate.

Both wore perfectly tailored suits, though they’d abandoned their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves. MI6 air conditioning systems were struggling to cope with the August heat and humidity, which was heavy motivation for their appearance on the firing range at the unheard-of hour of eleven in the morning, when they should’ve been discussing where to go for lunch.

They stopped at the handguns range door, and froze at the sound, very muffled, of shouting from inside. 

“If you touch one more fucking server, I will rip your head off!” came very distinctly angry words, muted as they were by the door. “Do you have any idea how much relevant data is on that? I can precisely predict... No, seriously, back off!”

“Right,” Alec Trevelyan, 006, said, and slapped his hand to the biometric reader. It registered his print at once, and the door unlocked.

James Bond entered a step ahead, as soon as the door opened, one hand on the Walther holstered at his left side. He didn’t actually draw it only because he was on MI6 grounds and _theoretically_ everyone here was safe and had been vetted.

At the interruption, two men at the far side of the room, by the range monitoring booth, looked over. One was small and fragile, wild hair over dark-rimmed glasses, wearing an open cardigan over his button-down shirt despite the oppressive heat outside. The other was far more substantial, four inches taller and easily three stone heavier, and looked furiously down at the first.

“If you have issue with me accessing data on _my_ agents,” the smaller one said in a voice almost too soft for Bond to hear, “take it up with my superiors. I suggest you ask them for a letter of recommendation immediately afterwards.”

“Don’t you fucking _threaten_ me!”

Bond watched as the smaller one — his Quartermaster, in fact — turned and started away, unconcerned about the other one’s rage. Aggression still running high, the other one — whom Bond _didn’t_ recognise — grabbed at the Quartermaster’s arm and wrenched him back around, drawing a startled hiss of pain.

Bond and Alec were both about to step forward, but the act of intervention became wholly unnecessary as their Quartermaster, with a surprising speed and wiry strength, ducked, twisted, and pulled. It happened almost too fast to follow — one moment, the aggressor was holding Q’s arm hard enough to bruise, and the next he was on his knees, arm wrenched uncomfortably up under his shoulder blades.

“That really wasn’t wise,” Q suggested quietly. “Now, if I let you go, will you leave? Or need I ask 006 and 007 over there to escort you out?”

The two agents exchanged a look. Alec grinned and leaned against the wall by the door. He reached out with one hand and opened it just enough to hold it with his foot. Bond put down the duffel of guns and ammunition he and Alec had checked out of the armoury. The contents rattled loudly.

“They’re witnesses. You attacked me — you’ll be sacked for this!”

“I didn’t see anything,” Bond said casually. “You, Alec?”

“Nope.” Alec’s grin turned even more feral than was customary.

“How fortuitous,” Q said with a matching grin. He pushed just a little harder, and the agents winced, knowing just how close the shoulder was to being popped out of the socket. “I suggest you agree to leave quickly and quietly before I get tired of practising restraint.” He looked back over at the servers in the corner of the room, appearing for all the world to be utterly bored with the situation. “I do have work to do,” he added.

There was only so long anyone could endure the strain of such a hold. Finally, the pain forced a “Fine!” out, and Q released the hold contemptuously. He turned and went right to the servers as the other man tried to gather his tattered dignity and walk out, rather than scrambling.

Alec stopped him, one hand lashing out, whip-fast, for the ID badge on his lanyard. He made a point of studying the badge number before he set it gently back down with a little pat. “Have a _splendid_ day.”

As soon as the door closed, Bond grinned and beckoned Alec over, hoping to forestall any comments he might make. For as little as Bond knew about Q on a personal level, Q had proven himself in the pursuit for Silva — had earned Bond’s trust. More importantly, he’d earned Bond’s loyalty when he’d agreed to break the rules at Bond’s request, with no explanation.

But now, months after the destruction and chaos Silva had caused, Q was still an unknown. He was in charge of the Double O programme’s information and technology support systems — everything from false identification to hotel tickets to arms and armour. While there were whole divisions meant to support most of MI6’s field operations teams, from the various city-based Stations to the proper military arm, Section 20, Q dealt solely with the clandestine group of assassins who weren’t acknowledged except to the PM himself. The last thing Bond wanted to do was to offend him by offering help where obviously none was needed.

“Do I want to know how you knew we’d be down here?” he asked instead as he got out the safety gear. He sometimes didn’t bother, but now he was very glad he had.

“If that were an actual question, phrased straightforwardly and with the expectation of an answer, perhaps I’d respond in kind,” Q not-answered, pulling a small screwdriver out of the satchel at his feet. He turned to stare speculatively at the data rack before climbing onto the counter to shove a ceiling tile aside, ducking his face away to avoid the dust avalanche it caused. “Good god, when was the last time these cables were checked?” Q shook his head, annoyance clear on his face.

Alec gave Bond a silent, eloquent look.

Bond huffed in irritation and put on his ear protectors. “Mind if we start?” he asked over his shoulder, more sharply than was entirely polite. He picked up the first of his chosen handguns, a classic Colt 1911, and searched for an appropriate magazine in the bag.

“Go ahead,” he said, looking back for a moment before he stood up on the rack and looked into the ceiling crawlspace.

Everything at MI6 had been _off_ since Silva. Mallory instead of M. Burnt-out wreckage of HQ and movers in the tunnels. Even having fully half of the Double O agents on rotation back in London for security purposes, rather than out in the field, felt odd, good as it was to see some of them again.

Bond looked at Alec, who shrugged again. Stoically, Alec pointed out, “At least the air conditioning works here.”

“That it does,” Bond agreed, and shoved the magazine into the Colt. He racked the slide back and aimed at the target at the far end of the range, dismissing the Quartermaster’s strange behaviour from his mind. Summer in London always brought out the worst in everyone.

 

~~~

 

 _CAT-5?_ Q thought, brushing dust out of his hair as he stared in growing horror at the bundle of cables. He hadn’t expected fibre optics at a firing range, but _CAT-5?_ Really? Why not just use bloody carrier pigeons? Little scribbled notes tied to claws and sent off to fly through the ventilation system. That’d be damned near as fast.

God, he hoped there weren’t spiders up here. The thought made his skin crawl. But he didn’t trust anyone else to do the job. He was mentally computing the cost of recabling — his department was on a cutthroat budget for the rest of the year — when his mobile chimed a text alert, interrupting the music. As a secure phone, he wasn’t supposed to have music loaded on it, but the rules and regs dealing with technology were _suggestions_ to him, rather than laws.

The text was from Tanner, M’s chief of staff: _If you’re available, could you come up to my office, please? — Bill Tanner_

Q was _very_ tempted to answer ‘not available’. He’d been quietly spreading the word that, unlike Boothroyd, he prefered order and ample warning before committing to administrative meetings — but he had a number of projects in the midst of the approval process. Still, he couldn’t leave the job here undone; after what that oaf, Ray, had done, there was no way Q wasn’t going to finish the job.

 _30 minutes. — Q,_ he sent back, hoping he wasn’t setting a bad precedent. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and resumed looking for the switch he knew had to be hiding in the ceiling somewhere. CAT-5, one switch for five servers, and not a single local backup. Q shook his head. Bloody Boothroyd.

Behind him, he could hear the methodical sound of gunfire from the two agents. At first, their presence in the range had been disruptive — he’d been _certain_ they’d go to the sniper range, and he made a mental note to see about pulling video feed from the armoury. Now, though, it was soothing. They hadn’t said a word about the _incident_ earlier, though Q was all but certain that 006, at least, would end up seeking out the neanderthal who thought he knew how to configure servers. Q didn’t need the help, but the Double O’s always liked to feel useful — as long as ‘useful’ involved threats, violence, or both. God forbid they should do something actually useful, like crawling up into the ceiling and finding the bloody switch.

Q reached back into his pocket for his phone, and launched the torch app. The tiny crawlspace filled with light, and Q had to bite back a groan at its filthy state. It took only another moment of searching to find the switch; he pulled the cables for all five servers out, dropping them to the floor. He left the switch itself in place merely as an expensive, cable version of a paperweight. He didn’t actually want to have to crawl up to retrieve the input cable.

That done, he tucked his phone back into his pocket, replaced the tile, and clambered down as gracefully as one covered in dust (and who knew what else) could be. He got one toe on the rack and let go of his weight to drop the other foot in place, only to feel hands grab at his hips, steadying him.

“Careful,” 006 said cheerfully. “You don’t want to go to Medical in that state. They’ll break out the decontamination gear.”

Q swallowed back a sound at the steady, rough hands on his hips — not just at the treatment itself, which was delicious enough, but at the sharp pain of fingers pressing into fresh bruises. He steadied himself and stiffened, hoping 006 would get the message that he didn’t welcome the manhandling. Apparently, however, the effect was ruined by his rather unsanitary condition.

006 didn’t release Q once he was on the floor. Instead, he turned Q around, looking him over critically. Q was certain that 006 intended his efforts at brushing away the dust and debris to be gentle and without a hint of intimacy, no more than he’d do for any co-worker, but Q couldn’t hide the flinch as strong hands found more bruises and welts. And of course he didn’t have the luck for it to go unnoticed.

“You all right? Strain something?” 006 asked.

“Rough practice session in the sparring ring yesterday,” he responded, voice tight with pain. At least his white lie was close enough to the truth — he had, in fact, got bruised a bit in yesterday’s sparring session, in case they checked. They just didn’t need to know where the _rest_ of the injuries came from. He picked his screwdriver up again from the counter.

“Huh. Can’t be too careful, after everything that happened.” With one last brush, 006 went back to his firing lane, complaining to 007, “What you fired while I was saving our Quartermaster’s arse doesn’t count.”

“It’s my fault you got distracted?” 007 snapped right back, and Q could hear the grin in his voice.

“This one gives us guns, James. What would you rather have, Boothroyd’s exploding pens or a decent fucking gun for a change?”

007 laughed. “Fair enough,” he agreed. Then, raising his voice, he called over to Q, “Try not to break anything important.”

“He means _you_ , not those damned machines,” 006 clarified helpfully.

Q hid his smile as he turned to the server rack. That qualified as one of the nicest things an MI6 employee had ever said to him. But they didn’t need to know that.

Once the cables were braided into a loose circle on the floor, and all the screws had been removed from the drive sleds, it was only a matter of moments to remove the drives and stack them in the static-proof box he’d brought with him. He even left their IDE cables in the trash — he had far more efficient ways to access the drives in his lab. He left the braids, carefully slid his satchel over his shoulder, and picked up the box. 

He stood back and admired the results of the takedown. There were still a few things to be dealt with, of course — the rack, the shelves, the braids — but he could send someone else to take care of it. He only had fifteen minutes left until his meeting with Tanner, but it would have to do. He wouldn’t have time to shower, but he could probably shake off the worst of it.

 

~~~

 

The door closed behind their Quartermaster without a word. Even through the loud thunder of gunfire and the muffling ear protection, both agents were aware of the _click_ of the lock. Bond lowered his weapon and looked through the plexiglas divider wall at Alec, who was doing the same.

“What was _that_ about?” Bond asked.

After a moment’s consideration, Alec shook his head, turning to look back at the now-disassembled target scoring computers. “No idea. He didn’t take a fall.”

Bond huffed, though he was forced to agree. There was no sign of any damage anywhere in the range — not that most of the range would show damage, especially not from such a scrawny body. If there had been a physical altercation before he and Alec had arrived, there’d be _some_ evidence of it. If nothing else, Q would’ve had bruises on his face or hands. Skin that pale and thin would mark from even a hard touch, much less a solid punch, and the other one — Alec had got his name, Bond recalled — looked the type to punch very solidly.

“I trust this one,” Bond said, dropping the half-spent magazine out of his gun. He started loading additional rounds into it.

“Even at his age?”

Bond nodded. “Yes.”

“All right,” Alec agreed. He’d been called back after Silva, his recon mission aborted, and hadn’t actually associated with the Quartermaster beyond a brief introductory meeting. But Bond knew that his word was as good as experience, in Alec’s book. Their trust went back years, predating MI6.

“For an unknown, you were quick to get your hands on him,” Bond said, unable to resist.

“I was standing closer.”

“And the fact that you like anyone who’s smaller and more — what would you say? Delicate?”

“Bugger off,” Alec countered. “Would you rather I let him break his bloody neck, climbing around on those shelves?”

Bond grinned. “Not at all. Just don’t ask me to double-date with you two. He’s not my type.”

Alec huffed. “And Eve Moneypenny is?”

“At least she’s tough.” Bond pointedly looked at Alec as he pushed the magazine back into the handgun. “Try not to break him, will you? We don’t need to get used to another damned Quartermaster. We might not get so lucky, next time.”

 

~~~

 

Tanner was on his feet by the printer in the corner, rather impatiently tapping his toes as it slid papers out at a perfectly normal rate. Why he insisted on printing to this small ‘use it for single-document emergencies’ printer, rather than the bulk printer in Moneypenny’s outer office, Q had no idea.

“Thanks for coming, Q. Blasted thing — I’m going to be late. Only have a few minutes,” he said, waving Q to a seat. “Oh, grab a drink if you like. And that file on the desk.”

Q grimaced at the file in front of him. _Hardcopy_. Why bother when every employee in the building had a tablet issued to them? 

Ignoring the offer of a drink, he walked over to desk and picked up the file. He carefully resisted the urge to ask Tanner if he needed help — he was an engineer, not tech support. The sudden vision of Roy from _The IT Crowd_ in the basement ( _Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?_ ) flashed through his mind, pulling a smile from him as he picked up the file.

Then he forgot all about his disdain for hardcopy. This was _his_ file — his pet project, his baby, his effort to drag MI6 kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. The Double O programme had its uses, as he’d told 007 just a few months ago, but there was a new vacancy, a void in MI6’s skillset: specifically, tech security. Q’s single most important objective as Quartermaster was to not only secure MI6’s systems from outside intrusion, ensuring they’d never fall prey to another Silva, but to give MI6 the power to wield technological havoc as a weapon.

Heart pounding, he searched for the particulars of the approval. He’d asked for twelve; he’d received approval for four. That wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

He resisted the urge to start with babbling gratefulness. “Four instead of twelve,” he said. “I suppose it will do. Thank you, Tanner.” His mind flashed to the four he would select — measuring them up silently against his very hefty expectations. Manners, Ricoh, Wren, and Mason. God this was going to be fun. Hard work. But fun. “Any specific allowances or limitations I should know about?”

“They’re cleared for first-floor only, visitor’s entrance. Sorry, we can’t have them even knowing about the tunnels,” Tanner said with what sounded like genuine apology. “I’ve put in an order for your security clearance to be increased as well. You’ll need to undergo another polygraph — Moneypenny can schedule that for tomorrow or the next day, I believe. The usual guidelines, but most shouldn’t be a problem. No family.” He gave Q a faint smile. They were both veterans of the old M, who’d forged MI6 into a family through experience, not blood. Damn near every one of her hires had no living relatives, or almost none.

He looked back down at the file, thinking about the polygraph. It amused him that MI6 still relied on so archaic a technology — he wondered why they would test the non-agents with a device they trained the agents themselves to beat. It was a stupid paradox that he almost spent some time dwelling on until full realisation hit. His security clearance was going up.

It was no secret to anyone that Q had ambition. He hadn’t made it to his status as the youngest Quartermaster in MI6’s history by being the mousy little genius in the corner. He’d scraped and fought and and carved a life for himself here, building successful projects that were both creative and efficient. The Phoenix Program was the pinnacle of that sort of effort, one he was almost certain would propel him from his relegation to leader of the tinkerers to actual executive branch potential. That his security clearance being upped was an excellent mark in the right direction — but it also meant much more heavy monitoring.

For Q, this meant the negotiation of a very tricky issue. As hard as he worked, as much as he fought for his corner of the world, he occasionally needed to be brought back to Earth. For the hours spent in the black and white world of networked systems administration and the sense of godliness that came from holding the health and wealth of nations in his fingertips as they executed lovely dances over his keyboards, he also needed to be reminded that he was just another body, just another mind, capable of being brought down.

Thus the clubs. Clubs that, under his new security clearance, would no longer be as acceptable an option. He’d have to avoid them for the most part — for as much as he could deal with security and CCTV on his own, it wouldn’t be a chance worth taking more than once every few months.

Unfortunately, there was no room in his mind for debate. His ambition meant far more than the fleeting pleasure he might find outside MI6’s walls. He gathered up the file to take back with him to his office to study more closely. “I’ll arrange everything. Thank you for this opportunity, sir.”

Tanner gave him a brief, somewhat strained smile as he finally gathered up the mess of pages from the printer’s catch tray. (The printer in the outer office could collate, bind, staple, and even cover, but Q refrained from mentioning that.) “I know you’ll make this into something big, Q. M and I have every confidence in that. Bring us results we can take to the budgetary oversight committee, and I’ll get you the other eight,” he said, shoving the papers under his arm and walking to Q’s side to offer him a handshake of congratulations.

Q couldn’t hold back his grin even if he wanted to. He took Tanner’s hand gratefully. “Absolutely. Thank you again.”

Resolving to digitise the file as soon as he was back in his office, Q tucked it under his arm and headed for the door, both thrilled and slightly hesitant. 

This was going to be interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

When Q had submitted his proposal for the Phoenix Project, he’d carefully avoided any mention of the ‘h-word’, knowing that his superiors most likely had a very eighties view of hackers — meaning they were all renegades and criminals. (Not that the definition applied even in the eighties.)

In fact, Q recruited his first four tech agents based on their ability to innovate, think quickly, absorb knowledge, and find loopholes and vulnerabilities _without_ giving in to the temptation to exploit them. The four were every bit as professional as any MI6 administrative employee. Or, _almost_ as professional, Q corrected, eyeing the bright blue streaks in Wren’s pale platinum hair. Those were new; last week, they’d been a deep coppery red.

Still, she’d reported in this Monday morning as she had for the last three weeks, turned out in a smart business suit, sensible heels, and a blazer which she took off as soon as she entered the conference room where Q had set up four sit-stand workstations. “God, traffic’s murder,” she said, tossing the blazer over her drafting chair. She kicked off her shoes and went to log in.

Manners was sprawled back in his seat, almost sunk below the level of his desk. Like Wren, he wore a suit, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. His tie was a conservative navy blue covered in dove grey binary print. “Should bike in,” he advised sagely.

“Not everyone likes the idea of communal showers,” Wren fired back, and Ricoh and Mason sniggered from the two workstations they’d pushed together.

“It’s good for — _Gods_.” Manners sat up an inch. “Oi, Ripper. Two hundred twelve unauthorised attempts just yesterday?”

“Standard for a weekend,” Q said calmly, not looking up from his laptop. He wasn’t allowing his crew of potential security risks access to the real MI6 servers. Last night, though, he’d pulled the logs onto his secure mirror for them to show off their skills with near-live data. “Fix it.”

“Be glad you got security,” Ricoh said from the shared corner of the room.

Before he could explain his statement, though, the door opened, and Q glared at the intrusion. He’d specifically secured the door against any of the locals after day one, when he’d learned that being up in the admin pool meant every switchboard rep and secretary thought he was there to help fix jammed printers or ‘Why’s my computer gone all blue?’ problems.

Fortunately — or unfortunately, as it were — the intruder _did_ have the security access. 006 gave a grin made lopsided by the surgical tape covering a fresh wound that went from his cheekbone to his jaw. He held up a duffel bag — a suspiciously small one — and said, “Happy Monday, Q. Got a present for you.”

Q eyed the bag and the bandage and then frowned. “006. Yes, it’s Monday, when normal work hours commence. If that’s a broken sniper rifle, please give it to Danielle. I’ll look at it later.” He didn’t know which was the more irritating thought — the idea that 006 would bring him something to fix even when he was away from Q Branch, or the idea that it was actually some sort of present.

Instead of leaving, 006 stalked into the room in a way that drew every eye, at least until Q glared his minions into returning to their work. “It’s not _just_ the scope,” 006 said, bright green eyes fixed on Q as he walked up to Q’s desk. “You said you wanted the scope back. I brought you the scope. _And_ something else.”

Q took the bag warily. Like many of the Double O’s, Alec moved in a way that reminded him of a cat — a deadly, predatory jungle cat. He logically knew there wouldn’t be an enemy’s head in there (no dripping blood was a good sign), but he opened it slowly anyway. “Where’s the rest of the goddamn rifle?” he asked instead, peering inside.

“Hopefully still jammed through the door handles, forcing the three security guards into cannibalism to survive,” 006 said cheerfully. “But I _did_ take the scope off, first. And look.” He stepped closer, close enough that his jacket brushed against Q’s arm, and reached into the bag to extract three-quarters of a laptop.

Precisely three-quarters, in fact, as if he’d taken a circular saw to it and cut straight across what had once been a perfectly lovely, expensive MacBook.

Q looked at it admiringly for a quick second before flipping the case to check that the hard drive and onboard memory were still intact. They were — serial numbers and all. “Please tell me this is from someone very interesting,” he said, rewarding Alec with a rare grin.

006 leaned in close and whispered, “I’ll tell you where I got it, but I’d have to kill them.” He tipped his head at the minions, who were intently listening. “This would be the part where you thank me.”

Q looked up, assessing the possibilities. Alec was handsome, strong, and Q would bet more than a little dominant in bed. With his new security clearance, it would be expected that he’d keep his interpersonal relationships strictly in-house (to avoid security breaches) — and while Q wouldn’t have _chosen_ a Double O necessarily, the idea had merit. So he smiled and said, “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” There wasn’t much suggestion behind it — no flirtatious body language, no licking of the lips, no widening of the eyes. But it was enough of a departure from his customary snark that he hoped Alec would get the hint.

Alec’s grin tugged at the bandage on his face. “Let me know what you learn. I’ll go find an office somewhere. You _do_ remember how to track an agent, don’t you?”

Q didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning back to the laptop, smile still in place. He could feel the eyes of his team on him — fair enough. The Double O’s were legends; best his team learn straight away that they were real people, equally adept at flirtation and damage.

Still grinning, 006 stalked back out, eyeing the four coders the way a sated predator looks at a tender young rabbit, debating an after-dinner snack.

When the door closed, four sets of eyes turned to look at Q. He set the laptop down and held up the scope, checking for damage. “They never learn,” he said sadly, shaking his head at a deep score along the side of the sight. Privately, he decided that once he got the newbies started on their task of the day, he’d take the laptop down to his office to start running decryption. Hopefully he’d find something interesting enough to offer Alec, thereby reducing the appearance of chasing the man down. If the laptop turned out to be a bust, with nothing but porn and cat videos on it (which happened more often than any Q Branch tech would like to admit), there would be no conversation as a reward for Alec, he decided. He had no problem with making the agent try harder.

 

~~~

 

“What the hell happened to you?” Bond asked, sitting up with a creak of hydraulics.

“The usual.” Alec shrugged and set down one of the toughbooks that were all Q Branch would issue to the field agents since the new Quartermaster decided they were too hard on more fragile laptops. He pulled a chair up to the corner of the desk and leaned back, bracing a foot against the side. “Didn’t think you’d be back.”

“It was Colombia. Not a big enough country for anyone to hide in for _that_ long,” Bond said with a feral grin. “Been back for three days.”

Alec’s smirk held more meaning than Bond could immediately read. “Retrieved a laptop,” he said too-casually. “If it has anything useful, I may head back out.”

“Why not just ship —” Bond cut off, eyeing Alec. “Don’t tell me you wanted to deliver it personally.”

“It seemed the polite thing to do. I _did_ lose the sniper rifle.”

“Christ,” Bond muttered, rolling his eyes. He turned to the toughbook and went back to skimming his after action report. “The Quartermaster? Really?”

“He’s clever. Won’t be boring at dinner.”

Bond huffed, paging down. “And in bed? Assuming he’s even interested.”

“Of course he’s interested. Who wouldn’t be?”

“Didn’t you get stabbed for that philosophy once?”

“Affectionately. She liked knives.” Alec shook his head. “He’s interested.”

“You’ll break him.”

“Were you always this much of a pessimist?”

“You’ve known me more than twenty years.” Bond turned the computer to Alec. “Does that read right?”

Alec leaned in and swiped at the touchpad. “You — An entire _cargo liner_?”

“There were drugs somewhere on it.”

“How much?”

“Few hundred kilos.”

Alec winced. “How much of the port did you take out?”

Bond grinned at the memory of a truly spectacular fireball. The local fish were probably still getting high off the fumes. “Most of it, but in my defence, it was a _very_ small port.”

 

~~~

 

Q sat back and sighed in annoyance. What a waste of time. The porn had been even creepier than the usual variety that cropped up on confiscated tech, but that was all that was of note on the laptop. It hadn’t even _tried_ to access any of the flagged networks that were marked as observation-worthy for the part of the continent that Trevelyan had been in — which probably meant that it had done nothing but sit at some poor sod’s desk at home. Q wondered how Trevelyan had actually managed to acquire it. It seemed to serve the sole purpose of spiking Q’s interest.

Fun, but a waste of time.

He picked up the phone to call for Danielle. He’d do his due diligence in tracking down the serials and identifying the owner, but he could hand it off and get back to the much more interesting people he had waiting for him upstairs.

She bustled in a few minutes later, an older, grandmotherly lady who was more adept with tech than three-quarters of the department. She’d logged more field hours than most of them combined, too, which made her that much more valuable to his team. She’d earned the respect of all the field agents, including the Double O’s.

“Oh, that poor thing,” she said as soon as her eyes fell on the laptop. Q had disassembled most of it and hooked the hard drive up to a secondary computer. Everything sat in a shallow anti-static box with a power strip cable-tied along one end. “Which of them did it? I saw 006 is back in-country. 0011 isn’t scheduled to return till tomorrow. 007’s been back for three days, though he only reported in this morning.”

“006 brought it to me like some cat dragging back the carcass of a murdered bird,” Q responded, poking at a few of the keyboard tiles he’d been playing with on the surface of his desk. “Amusing and endearing though it may be, he interrupted my work with the new team. I don’t suppose you’d be a dear and finish the trace protocols for me?” He looked up at her with a crooked grin — one she earned by being constantly reliable and interesting. He unplugged the drive, and placed it and the rest of the bits back into the box. He unplugged the power strip, tucked the cable into the box, and stood, handing the whole mess over to her.

“Only if you go and get yourself lunch.” She quirked a brow critically at him. “Coffee for breakfast doesn’t count, dear. Did you want me to go scold 006 for this” — she held up the box — “after I’m through?”

Danielle was a genius. “Oh yes, please. Be sure to tell him that I was terribly disappointed.” Q stretched a bit and followed her out, already wondering if Ricoh was being as interesting with the mirrored attempts list as he had promised to be. He decided to phone in an order for delivery for all of them rather than take the time to go and fetch food. Being on the first floor did have certain advantages, after all. He hoped there were no severe allergies or annoying dietary restrictions among them, like gluten-free or vegetarianism.

The rest of the day was spent in relative silence which, frankly, Q enjoyed very much. The only sounds in the conference room, other than the occasional question, were those of his team proving that they had earned their place here. It wasn’t that Q didn’t want them to get started on the real work right away — right now he was getting a feel for their working styles as much as anything.

The door only opened a couple times during the course of the day, and Q thought he did an excellent job of hiding his disappointment each time that it was the sandwich shop delivery boy, Danielle, and the usual daily visit from Tanner — not Alec. At first, those visits had irritated Q, until he’d realised Tanner was actually _interested_ in the project and not simply checking up on what could be a security risk. He observed, with some amusement, that Tanner couldn’t seem to stop stealing glances at Wren’s hair. It had never occurred to him to look at whatever dress code might be in their contracts — perhaps it would be wise to suggest to Wren that modifications might be necessary.

One by one, the team trickled away as they finished their projects, and by seven o’clock, he was headed to the carpark with the unusual expectation of being able to have dinner, unrushed, to the canned laughter of Fawlty Towers. Since taking over Q Branch, he’d been moved to a lower, more secure level of the garage. Most execs probably found it inconvenient, but for Q it was a brief lift-ride away from his usual domain.

As he came around the corner, heading to his assigned parking spot, he saw two shadowy figures and a motorcycle right behind his car. For a moment, he felt a stab of irritation — carpark accidents happened _elsewhere_ , not at MI6. Then he recognised the sleek silver Triumph, along with the man leaning against the frame.

“Hello, agents,” he said, carefully not letting any facial expression — good or bad — show. “Get lost in the car park? It can be quite a maze, I suppose.”

“Say one word about rats and cheese,” 006 said, giving 007 a threatening glare.

007 grinned ferally. “Not at all. Try not to get in too much trouble, Alec.” He gave Q a brief nod. “Quartermaster,” he said, before he turned and walked towards the stairs. The Double O agents’ parking spaces were one floor up.

006 turned back to Q and asked, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s the thought that counts?”

“Only those trying to justify poor performance,” Q replied, raising an eyebrow. “I do have somewhat higher expectations for you.”

“I’ll just have to think of some other way to make it up to you.” He pushed away from the Triumph, looking Q over with open interest. He walked towards Q, saying, “I get points for bringing back the scope, though.”

“With only a few detracted for the shape it was in.” Q didn’t back away. “And if you have any ideas for how to make it up to me, I’m open to suggestions.” He didn’t smile, but turned his body towards Alec’s.

“Dinner,” Alec said without hesitation. He tipped his head back in the direction of the motorcycle, grinning even more. “I’ll even drive, if you think you can hang on.”

“Dinner is a good start. As for riding with you — I’d rather not,” Q answered wryly. It wasn’t that the image of riding behind Alec, pressed cock to arse, didn’t sound wonderfully dirty, but he didn’t relish the idea of being at his mercy for a ride back to MI6 if the evening didn’t end well. “Just tell me where to meet you.”

“Your choice,” he offered expansively, without a hint of disappointment at Q’s refusal. “What do you like?” He looked Q over again and took a step closer, into the very edge of Q’s personal space. “You _do_ eat, don’t you?”

Taking a risk at overdoing it, Q took advantage of their close proximity to run a light hand over Alec’s bicep. “Not all of us have to the time or inclination to maintain your sort of fitness,” he said, letting his hand linger for only a moment. “Pasta, I think.”

“Alloro,” he said at once, the quality of his grin changing at Q’s touch. He took another step closer, forcing Q to look up at him, and asked, “Know where it is, or do you want to try and keep up with me?”

“Remember, only one of us can erase CCTV footage,” he warned with a smile before unlocking his car with the press of a button. “And I’ll only erase that which incriminates you if you make it a worthy chase.”

Too fast for Q to react, Alec snatched his hand and turned him back around. His touch was gentle, but the suddenness of it still set Q’s heart to pounding. “And if I _do_ manage to impress you, Quartermaster?” he asked, his voice dropping low.

“Then I’ll endeavour to do the same.” Perhaps a little too close to honest, but worth the risk, he thought.

Alec’s fingertips brushed over the inside of Q’s wrist, teasingly soft, before he let go. “Alloro it is, then,” he said, and headed for the Triumph.

Q turned back to his car and climbed in, turning the engine with a frown. He watched as Alec climbed on the bike, trying not to be too disappointed in the gentleness of his touch. He hoped it was a temporary uncertainty, not indicative of his larger preferences. The last thing Q wanted, or needed, was gentle. Alec started the Triumph with a roar, and Q gestured with a grin — as if giving him a needed head start.

With a sharp laugh, Alec tore off towards the exit ramp, not bothering with a helmet. Q wondered if Alec had actually underestimated the innocuous little car Q drove. He eased the car out of its parking spot, ready to show off. As long as Alec didn’t run over any pedestrians in an attempt to save time by using sidewalks, Q knew he had a pretty good chance. Not to mention, of course, his GPS had special programming that calculated the fastest routes based on signal optimisation data from the transit authorities. He made his way slowly out of the car park, leaving a careful three feet between him and Alec, until they made it through the series of security gates.

Then, all bets were off.

 

~~~

 

Q was nearly breathless with laughter by the time Alec finally caught up with him. He’d had enough time not only to park his unassuming car at the restaurant, he’d also managed to get seated at a table. He didn’t hold his mirth back — as soon as Alec appeared in front of him, he gave him a wide smile. “Catch a few lights, did you?”

Alec laughed and sat down across from Q, raking a hand through his hair with a grin. “Bloody cheat. What’d you do? Rig the lights?”

“Rigging the lights isn’t necessary, as long as you know how to predict them,” Q answered cheekily. He didn’t actually intend on sharing the GPS with anyone; let Alec think it was all mental calculation.

“Well, maybe next time I go out in the field, I’ll take you with me,” Alec said, picking up his menu with one hand. He glanced down at it, then back across at Q, saying, “But you did win, cheating or not. You should give some careful thought to your prize.”

 _Skipping dinner and going straight to bed would be lovely_ , he thought, but didn’t say. “I’ll think about it,” he promised, skimming the drinks list.

“Don’t take too long. You never know when I’ll be sent out again,” Alec warned, sliding his free hand across the table with an inviting twitch of his fingers.

Q glanced at his hand, then up at Alec’s expectant face. What exactly was it about him that screamed ‘squishy romantic who likes to hold hands’ to the overly strong, well-muscled types, anyway? He suppressed a sigh, reaching out to scratch his fingers over Alec’s wrist lightly — enough to score, but not enough to hurt. “And if I do take too long, and you’re left stomping through the swamp of some third world country, wondering?” he challenged.

“That depends on you. Would you pass me off to Danielle or one of your other assistants?” he challenged, keeping his own touch on Q’s wrist infuriatingly light. “I’m one of your senior agents, after all.”

“Which scenario would be the most rewarding for me when you got back? As a senior agent, you must have some brilliant ideas for carrying through on delayed expectation.” He dragged his thumbnail a little harder up Alec’s wrist, leaving a light mark over veins just below his palm. _Take the bait_ , he thought, watching Alec’s face carefully, feeling Alec’s muscles twitch and go tense.

“I’d much prefer to show you. Tonight, perhaps,” he suggested, dragging his hand back enough to send a light, shivering brush over Q’s palm before he caught Q’s fingers between his own.

He didn’t take the bait. _Fuck_ , Q thought with an inward frown. He could see it now — gentle, tender sex of the absolutely boring variety. He wondered if he could bait Alec into something rougher — maybe the agent just needed incentive. Reassurance that Q wasn’t a bloody softie.

“You know,” he started, only stopping briefly to think that maybe baiting an assassin wasn’t perhaps the _wisest_ of ideas, “those of us in Q Branch don’t exactly get a lot of hand-to-hand combat training. I have thin wrists. If Beck had grabbed me by the wrist that day at the firing range, I could have been in a lot more trouble. Do you have any ideas on how I should attempt to break such holds without damaging myself?”

“Actually, your handling of him was very impressive. It’s good that the mandatory self-defence courses are actually working,” Alec said admiringly. “If you’d like, though, we can go to a sparring room any time tomorrow. Between us, we outrank anyone else who might have booked a room.”

Tomorrow? Was Alec really that oblivious, or just completely uninterested? Q carefully shoved the silverware, napkin, candle, and glasses aside, clearing a space between them, then laid his hand out suggestively. “Why wait? The serving staff here seem rather slow, and I bore easily.” He twitched his fingers and grinned. “Come on, Alec. Show me what you’ve got.”

Alec stared at him intently before his eyes flicked around at the elegant restaurant. He took a breath and said, “This really isn’t the place. Or have you changed your mind about dinner?”

Q sat back, disappointed. That wasn’t a look of desire, or excitement, or anticipation. It was the all-too-familiar gaze of ‘what the hell are you thinking’. “Of course, you’re right,” he said, keeping the resignation from his voice with a forcible act of will. God, this was going to be a long evening. “So, what nearly turned that MacBook into ceviche?”

Alec laughed and leaned back. “Circular saw. The security cable was too tough, so I figured I’d just cut the problem parts off altogether. I couldn’t see very well” — he gestured at the wound on his cheek — “but I had the saw, so I figured I might as well. Sorry it didn’t turn out to be useful.”

Wastes of time seemed to be the theme with Alec today, apparently, Q thought uncharitably. He’d give Alec one more shot, when they’d finished dinner and were out of sight, just to test the unlikely theory that Alec preferred to be a beacon of propriety in public.

Not exactly typical for the Double O’s. Then again, Q had no experience with how they behaved on home ground.

 

~~~

 

The summer heat was oppressive even after the sun had gone down. Q led the way out into the thick humidity, relieved beyond words that dinner — which had been admittedly excellent — was finally over.

When they stopped before turning to go to their separate vehicles, Alec put a hand on Q’s back, asking, “Care to go for drinks? It’s still early.”

Q had one last shot at this. Whatever he did, it needed to not encourage Alec’s ‘what the hell?’ train of thought that had nearly derailed dinner. He leaned into the touch fractionally, looking up. “I’m still considering the sparring range, actually. Though it and drinks aren’t mutually exclusive.” His grin was crooked, but not quite feral, though it faded a bit when Alec stared at him, clearly confused.

“That’s —” He shook his head and asked, “Are you only here to get me to practice with you? I really don’t mind — there’s no need to be roundabout with asking for help. Everyone starts as a novice, and you’re clearly beyond that.”

Q looked away to hide his disbelief. How could a Double O — a bloody assassin! — be so dense? He stepped out of Alec’s reach and brought out his best smile. “I’m sure you’re quite a capable teacher.”

Alec followed, reaching up with one hand to touch Q’s face, a soft brush of fingertips over his cheek. “I don’t mean to pry, but... has someone threatened you?” he asked worriedly. “That wasn’t just a sparring injury a few weeks ago, was it?”

Any last hope that Alec was simply oblivious vanished under the realisation the he was being _protective_. He certainly wasn’t going to indulge in Q’s particular brand of vice if he was too worried about pre-existing marks, and who caused them. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.” He gently patted Alec’s hand before pulling back again. “I enjoyed dinner. Thank you. Perhaps we can spar some other time. I have been awfully busy with my new project, though. I’ll let you know.”

“It _is_ my concern, if it interferes with your ability to do your job — and because I’d like to consider you at least a friend,” Alec said earnestly. “Just give me a name, Q. You know better than anyone that I can protect you. Hell, how many bloody safehouses do we have right here in London?”

Q chuckled, thinking that if he were even a few more degrees closer to vanilla on the scale, he’d be thoroughly enchanted. “We are friends, Alec,” he assured him. “And if I ever need your assistance, I promise to ask. All right?” He gave him his most reassuring smile as he pulled out his keys.

He could see Alec’s worry and disappointment, though they were lost under a quick smile a moment later. “All right. Take care, Q.”

“You too. And thanks for dinner. It really was fun. Have a good night.” With one last nod, Alec turned and walked away. Q breathed a sigh of relief as he turned back to his car, pleased that the evening wasn’t ending uncomfortably.

And there was still plenty of time to get home, erase the evidence of their illegal chase through London, and watch a show in his queue.

Or, he could find _another_ diversion… Yes.

 

~~~

 

“We have a problem.”

Bond glanced down the length of the bar, letting his gaze linger invitingly on anyone who caught his eye. He wasn’t going to die if he didn’t find company tonight, but there was no need to waste the night out. “I don’t,” he said into his mobile.

“Q’s in danger — or something. Maybe a bad relationship.”

“What?” Bond stopped looking around and frowned down at the bar instead.

Alec’s sigh was laced with frustration. “He didn’t want a date. He wanted a bloody self-defence lesson. Asked how to get out of a hold.”

“He didn’t have any trouble with it a few weeks ago,” Bond said, frowning even more as he remembered how stiffly Q had responded to Alec helping him down from the computer shelves. How he’d been wearing long sleeves even in the miserable August heat.

“Yeah, well. He didn’t want to go anywhere after dinner, either.”

“You’re certain you weren’t a boring date?”

“James.”

“All right, all right.” Bond picked up his drink and finished it. “Surveillance?”

“Yeah, I’m going to follow him, get an address.”

“I’ll — Damn. We can’t use the office systems to pull records. He’ll notice.”

“We do this the old fashioned way. We find out who he’s living with or who he’s seeing.” Bond beckoned the bartender over to settle his tab. “No one else knows.”

“Agreed,” Alec said at once. Then he added, “Unless we both get sent out. Then we’ll have to pull the others in.”

“Fair enough.” Bond grinned ferally as he started counting out cash.

“No chances with this, James. He’s one of ours. Nobody fucks with him and lives.”

“Agreed.”

 

~~~

 

Q sat on the steps to his flat, fiddling with his phone. The date with Alec had been a complete and total letdown, but that didn’t mean his evening had to be a total waste of time. While he’d ended up going home alone, it didn’t have to stay that way.

He’d only thought about the possible consequences for a few brief moments before he’d told his in-car voice recognition program to text one of his oldest partners, Chris, to come by for the evening. He didn’t fall back on Chris often — the man was a programmer for a weapons manufacturer on the other side of the river, and the thought of being investigated by their respective organisations was _not_ appealing — but sometimes the risk was worth it. Chris was exactly what he wanted tonight, and if anyone at MI6 ran a check on him, they’d find nothing suspicious. They made sense together, in an odd way — both using their impressive abilities to make the nation safer.

Q watched as Chris circled the block once in his shiny red convertible, looking for a place to park. His pulse jumped in anticipation, and he stood in front of his door, face giving nothing away, as Chris finally slid into a parking spot.  This was one serious advantage to having a townhouse flat: no doormen or lifts to get in the way of privacy.

Chris took his time, damn him, looking splendid in tight jeans and a tight black collared-shirt.  He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome — green eyes flashing with predatory anticipation as he advanced on Q. Q didn’t smile back — he knew the rules well — and turned to let them into his flat.

Q toed off his shoes as he locked the door behind them, then turned to admire Chris in the brighter light of the foyer. The top three buttons of Chris’ shirt were undone, and Q couldn’t resist running his hand over the fine black hair that peeked out from under the shirt.

Chris grinned, grabbed Q’s wrist, and spun him to slam him into the foyer wall. “Did I say you could do that?”

Q didn’t answer, but waited breathlessly, feeling Chris’ body pressed up against his, strong and solid and controlling. Only when he relaxed into the hold did Chris release his wrist and step back. Q turned and looked at Chris, who smiled, slow and feral, before he gestured Q upstairs, towards the bedroom.

 

~~~

 

Bond pulled up to where Alec’s bike was parked at the end of a quiet residential street of terraced houses. Before the car was stopped, Alec opened the passenger door and got in, breathing a sigh of relief as he leaned close to the air conditioning vents. “Christ, it’s miserable out,” he muttered.

“You love your motorcycle,” Bond said a little smugly. When MI6 had handed over the reimbursement for the lost Aston Martin, Alec had given Bond two dozen suggestions, every one of them with two wheels and no air conditioning. Not that Bond’s current car was a _replacement_ for that classic, but at least it was comfortable.

“Yes, well.” Alec slouched back in his seat and said, “There are two of them in there, Q and some bloke who showed up about a half hour ago. The red convertible’s his.”

Bond glanced at the car — flashy, decent for the price, though not something he’d personally chose. “You didn’t look inside?”

“Not yet.” Alec gave Bond a look. “I’d rather have backup to get Q out while I deal with any threats.”

“Backup. Lovely.” Bond deliberately turned off the engine.

Alec glared at him. “Just for that, you get the roof.”

Bond returned the glare. “He’s _your_ date.”

“He’s _our_ Quartermaster. Besides, you’re dressed for it,” Alec countered, eyeing Bond’s casual T-shirt and jeans.

“Only because I know your tailor,” Bond said, mock-grudgingly. Three days off a mission was two days too many of boredom. Spying on their skinny little Quartermaster seemed like an entertaining diversion, especially for an otherwise quiet Monday night.

 

~~~

 

Chris was a goddamn artist. It had been nearly an hour, and he was just tying his last knot up between Q’s shoulderblades, well out of his reach. The black ropes were pulled tight, unforgiving loops spaced about six inches apart from his shoulders to his wrists, powerful knots in the space between ensuring that Q had no manoeuvrability. He sighed as he felt Chris’ breath hot on his neck, his hands flexing as if to reach out and touch.

Chris caught the movement and chuckled. “I don’t think so. You’ve been good so far tonight, but we still have a ways to go.” His voice was low and rough, and Q could feel the ropes press into his skin as Chris dragged his hand along them, admiring his own work.

Q’s hands were bound by several coils of rope, knotted carefully in between, so he couldn’t have actually done anything useful with his hands if he tried.  Not that he wanted to. Q felt himself settling slowly into that perfect space where he didn’t need to do anything, where he didn’t need to make any decisions, where he wasn’t responsible for anything. He waited, silently, for Chris to make Q useful however he wanted.

Behind him, Chris tugged Q up from where he’d been leaning against the headboard as Chris worked his knots. Q’s legs and thighs were free, so it was easy for Chris to pull him into a mostly upright position, kneeling on the bed, still facing away. Chris was still fully dressed, and Q shivered as the cotton fabric of his sleeves rubbed against Q’s sides as Chris wrapped his arms around him.

“Ready?” Chris asked in a low growl as he nipped at Q’s ear.

Q nodded.

Chris moved his mouth down to Q’s shoulder blade, biting hard. Q shuddered underneath him, squeezing his eyes shut with concentration, trying not to cry out. Chris’ dark chuckle at Q’s reaction was a welcome sound, with the slight edge to it promising more violence. “Quiet, now, Q — we wouldn’t want to wake the neighbours.”

One of the best things about Chris, in Q’s opinion — other than his stunning knotwork — was that he knew just how to fracture Q’s focus. It didn’t take significant amounts of pain, or endless coils of rope, or filthy talk whispered in his ear. It took randomness. And Chris could provide.

Chris threaded one hand through Q’s hair, yanking to expose his throat, but he didn’t bite it. Instead, he leaned down to lick a stripe between two braids of rope over Q’s ribs. Q tried to twist to provide him more access by leaning away, but Chris caught him by the waist and held him still.  Once Q relaxed again, Chris backed off entirely, leaving Q cold and exposed for one long moment before he was shoved down by a hand between his shoulderblades.

Q breathed deeply, difficult as it was when he was face-first on the bed. He could hear the shuffling sounds of Chris digging around in the bag he’d brought with him for something — the loud click of a cap making it clear where he was going next.

Inwardly, Q sighed.  His biggest complaint about Chris was that he spent so much time on his knots — beautifully, painfully wonderful as they were — that by the time they got to the actual sex, it was rushed and desperate.  From here on in, Q suspected Chris would spend about five minutes fucking him, and another five or six pulling him off. Q found himself regretting Chris’ total lack of interest in providing oral when the touch of a cool, slick finger sent his thoughts scattering again.

Chris wasn’t overly gentle; he worked quickly, pushing Q just a little harder and faster than what would have been considered polite for vanilla lovers. Q couldn’t help the occasional flinch, but rather than making Chris back off, it drove him to go just a little faster, a little rougher.

Q shuddered happily.

Once he’d worked his way up to three fingers, Chris pulled out just long enough to unzip and push his jeans and pants just barely out of the way.  Q felt the rough metal edges of the belt buckle as Chris pushed in.  It would leave lovely marks, he thought, if Chris thrust hard enough, fast enough.

Out on the balcony, he heard a noise — it was a reminder of Chris’ shortcomings that Q had enough thought to hope that the wind was finally picking up, maybe strong enough to blow out some of the choking humidity. Then, as Chris took hold of the ropes and hauled Q back up to his knees, he forgot entirely about it.

Chris’ orgasm came fast and hard, one hand tightening painfully in Q’s hair as the other one nearly crushed the breath out of him in Chris’ effort to hold Q close enough to feel the ropes. Q waited, quietly, for Chris to recover, wincing again when he pulled out.  

Finally, Chris tugged his hair back, forcing Q into an uncomfortable arch, before reaching down to take him in hand. Q closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Chris’ hand and the pull of the ropes until all thoughts, worries, and calculations were lost in his own overwhelming rush of ecstasy.

 

~~~

 

“God, James, what the hell happened? Did you kick over a flowerpot or something?” Alec demanded, following Bond back to the car. “Are you hurt? Drunk?”

“Just —” Bond shook his head, trying to banish the image of their Quartermaster, harmless and nerdy, bound securely in black ropes, being fucked rough and hard by someone who was decidedly _not_ an abusive lover.

Alec put a hand on his shoulder. “James?”

“He’s fine.” Bond resisted the impulse to turn back to the neat, bland little house. “He’s... not your type,” he added slowly. “What happened was probably a misunderstanding.”

“What —”

“Everything going on was consensual.” Bond looked directly at Alec. “His long sleeves? Blame rope burns.”

Alec’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, just because one of us had an unsuccessful date doesn’t mean the other needs to suffer a similar fate,” Bond said bluntly.

“Right. Well... thank you. This —”

“Good night, Alec,” Bond interrupted sharply. Tomorrow, he’d feel guilty for being brusque. For now, he needed to figure out exactly where he should go to find company.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond stubbed out his cigarette on the stairs, thinking he should go back up to his floater office. Tanner had sent back his after action report with a few (thirty-odd) notations requesting clarification, and Bond was tempted to run his answers through Google Translate, if he could pick an interesting, obscure language. Hadn’t he read somewhere that it did Klingon, from Star Trek?

He growled to himself when he realised the only reason he’d thought that was because he was thinking of computers and science fiction and technology, and all that was because he was thinking about Q.

The damned Quartermaster had been haunting him for four days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the smooth, relaxed lines of Q’s body wrapped tightly in black rope. He could practically hear the sound of his breath, his moans and cries, as his partner fucked him, ruthlessly hard and fast. He’d been hard, too — painfully aroused, and Bond hadn’t dared stay to see if he’d been allowed release or if he’d been denied. If his partner had left him wanting, would he have touched himself or played along, restlessly tossing and turning until he finally fell asleep?

Furious with himself, he headed downstairs, towards Q Branch, rather than going to his office. He didn’t even need to think of an excuse — as one of the senior agents of the Double O programme, he had a half-dozen legitimate technological concerns brought to him by the other Double O’s and field agents.

He also had the authority to go basically wherever the hell he chose, short of the executive branch halls. He got startled looks but no protests as he walked through the maze of cubicles and work benches, occasionally flashing a charming smile, though he never slowed his steps. He went right to Q’s office, considered knocking, and then just let himself in.

It was rare to find Q sitting; his usual approach was to stand at whatever desk or table held his computer and projects so that he could flit from station to station as need required. At the moment, however, Q was actually sitting down in the middle of his floor, surrounded by what looked like cicadas. Tiny, mechanical cicadas with odd little cylinders mounted on their back.

“Stop!” Q shouted, looking up at Bond and holding his hand out. “They’re everywhere. If you step on one, I will be very displeased,” he said in his usual, calmer voice when Bond stopped moving. “Please make sure none escape through the door.”

Bond closed the door, resisting the urge to snap at Q. There was no hint of his submission here — he was the sharp-tongued, authoritative branch leader he’d been for the last six months, since coming out of nowhere to take Boothroyd’s old place. Bond leaned against the door and crossed his arms, watching. _Staring_ , in truth.

“Don’t look at me like that, 007,” Q warned. “These were decidedly not my idea. One of the higher-up execs saw something like this in a movie and decided it was a fantastic concept. As it turns out, my predecessor crafted an army of prototypes, and now I’m stuck updating them.” He paused to pick one up, turning it upside-down. Bond watched as its little legs kicked in the air. “What do you want?”

“Am I in your way, Quartermaster?” Bond asked sharply.

Q looked up with a frown, searching Bond’s face more closely. He set the little creature-machine back down and straightened a little. “What’s wrong? Do you need assistance?”

“I asked you a question.” The words slipped out before Bond could stop himself.

“No,” Q said, still frowning. “You might be in their way” — he gestured to the tiny robots — “but they’ll just crawl over you, I suppose.” He didn’t move to get up, watching Bond even as he slid his laptop closer to tap a few keys distractedly.

“That’s fine.” Bond let out a breath and relaxed against the wall, watching Q trying to concentrate on work he obviously found irritating. There was nothing for Bond to read, though — not in his posture or breathing or tone of voice, except that he wasn’t asking questions anymore. He also wasn’t objecting to Bond’s presence.

So he stayed and watched as Q tried to coax the bugs into some sort of order. They didn’t seem very steady on their feet, despite having more than the customary number. Part of it looked to be the extra gear they were carrying; the rest, though, seemed to simply be that they were fragile. If they crashed into one another at just the right angle, legs would break off.

Q typed and picked up bugs and tinkered with them some more, frustration showing in the tense lines of his shoulders and back. Bond reminded himself (repeatedly) that technically any uninvited contact would be grounds for another note in his file, and his file already had more ‘notes’ than standard paperwork. After taking over, in fact, Mallory had asked if he was trying for a department record.

A faint tapping sound made him look down, to where a bug was determinedly banging its front end into his shoe.

“Uh, Q?”

Q looked up from where he was swapping out one of the tiny cylinders (a camera, Bond realised after a closer look) with one that seemed fractionally smaller. Q blinked at Bond for a moment, as if he had forgotten he was there. “Yes, 007?” he asked, voice for once free of its customary sarcastic edge.

“There’s a Q Branch rule that if someone or something likes me, I get to take it home, isn’t there?”

Q looked down at where the rhythmic tapping was coming from, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well, if mine were the final decision, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. However, I think the exec who cleared the several thousand quid each for these little monsters might be disappointed.” Q shuffled forward a few inches, careful not to crush any of the bugs, and leaned down to look at the little robot. Then he stretched one arm to carefully tap at the one that kept running into Bond’s shoe, redirecting it. “Besides, what makes you think it likes you? It may have just been trying to murder you, in its own tiny, inefficient way.”

Bond uncrossed his arms and leaned down, fully intending to reach for the little robot. His hand found Q’s hair instead, though, fingers combing through the mess, feeling the soft strands tickle between his fingers. He tugged without thinking, saying, “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to kill me, Quartermaster.”

Q made a very small noise, and everything — from his always-busy hands to the movement of his lungs — went suddenly still. Slowly and carefully, as if not to encourage Bond to move away, he looked up, eyes wide with surprise and something else. “Is that an invitation for attempted violence?”

“You’re welcome to _try_ ,” Bond said with a laugh, finally telling himself to let go firmly enough that he actually did. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms again, enjoying the sight of Q on the floor at his feet a little too much to look away.

It took long, quiet seconds, punctuated only with the clicking of inefficient robot feet, before Q twisted around and shuffled the two or three feet back to his laptop — not quite crawling, but not standing, either. He didn’t move to tinker with the bugs as he had been doing. Instead, he took a few careful breaths before snapping his laptop shut and looking back up.

“Was it Trevelyan? Because I didn’t think he quite got the message.”

Bond didn’t even try to play games. “No. Alec’s mind doesn’t work like that. Though he _was_ ready to hunt down anyone who was a threat to you."

Q chuckled. “For being an assassin of international renown, he certainly is a very sweet person. It’s really too bad I don’t go for that sort of thing.” He picked up his tiny screwdriver again and went back to work switching out cameras. “It must have been Chris, then. My one indulgence since my security clearance went up.” He shook his head with obvious self-recrimination as he finished. The bot took three steps and promptly tipped over, tiny legs wiggling helplessly in the air. “Stupid.”

 _Chris_ , Bond thought, feeling an entirely improper surge of jealousy, followed at once by regret. He shouldn’t have even touched Q — not like that.

“We won’t mention it,” Bond promised, his voice rock-steady. “You may want to run your own security check on him. Due diligence, in case it comes up in some other way.”

Q scooped up the flailing bug with a frown, but didn’t look up at Bond. “Thank you for advice and discretion, 007.” He reopened his laptop, and once the screen flickered back to life he tapped a few commands into a window.  The bugs all suddenly stopped moving, comically flopping over when their legs crumpled motionless beneath them. Q shut the laptop again and started to stand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to deal with this mess so I can get back to my real work.”

 _Translation: go the hell away_ , Bond thought. He left, telling himself to put the Quartermaster out of his mind. Maybe he’d go see M, find out if there was any hint of an available mission in the near future. Bothering the execs was always a good diversion. Since the death of the previous M, the exec branch was virtually toothless.

 

~~~

 

Q pulled down one of his many extra static-free project boxes from the storage cupboard in the back of his closet, bristling with irritation.

 _Due diligence, indeed_ , he thought sourly as he bent down to pick up each of the bots, tossing them with almost no grace into the box. As if he hadn’t researched Chris as thoroughly as he was able before they even went out for their first drink.  (And Q was thorough — more so than most government agencies running background checks on potential employees.) As if he didn’t have Chris’ name tagged in the system in case anything new showed. As if he were such a terrible judge of character, of selecting interpersonal relationships, that he couldn’t be trusted.

He threw the last bot in, smiling vindictively as it crunched when it collided with the bottom of the box.

And, to top it all off, he’d grabbed Q by the hair. Not just some gentle caress of tender affection, either. And there was no way Bond could claim it had been an accident. He’d given it a good yank, sending sparks flying down Q’s spine, eyes full of fire as he stared down at Q. It was a promising start, Q had thought at the time, waiting for Bond’s next move.

And there hadn’t been one.

Q shook his head as he fitted the lid to the box and tucked it under his arm. All that potential, gone to rot.

It was a mark of his thorough distraction that he made it to the door before he remembered to turn around to pull the jump drive with the command interface for the bots on it from his laptop. _Double O’s_ , he thought with annoyance.  He was done with them.  They seemed to do nothing for Q but waste his time.

He didn’t wait for the door to automatically lock behind him as he headed back up towards the executive branch. He’d get rid of the bots and still have time to evaluate his new team’s work before he went home.

He was doubly annoyed when he found Alec lurking in the Phoenix team’s room, draped seductively against the side of Wren’s desk, grinning down at her with a heated, almost proprietary expression in his green eyes. “Norway. Norway’s lovely,” he was saying into the silence left by the absence of Wren’s typing. “But then, I like the cold. Do you ski?” He glanced up as Q entered, and he actually had the audacity to give Q a friendly grin, as if they hadn’t had an awkward date and apparently an even more awkward after-the-date-stalking, if Alec and Bond knew about Chris. “Afternoon, Q.”

“Oh. Ripper,” Wren said, darting a guilty look Q’s way, before she quickly started typing. “I have the, uh, program done for you to review.”

“Ripper?” Alec asked in delight.

“I’m impressed that you managed, despite your distractions,” Q said coolly, throwing a glance at Alec. “It’s nearly six,” he said to all four of them. “You may go. See you tomorrow. Leave your workstations on, please.”

Q watched them gathering their things, occasionally glancing over Alec, wondering if he were going follow Wren out. If he was, Q would have to warn her about Double O’s. If not... well, he did tell Alec they were friends.

Alec followed Wren to the door, but said, “One minute, love,” and turned back to look at Q. He let the door close and said, “Listen, about the other night... I’m sorry. I might’ve overreacted a bit.”

Q gave him a small, but genuine, smile. “No need to apologise. I should have been clearer from the start,” he said, though he wasn’t sure how much more clear he possibly could have been. Then it occurred to him that the apparently-gentle Alec might have a similar problem with Wren. “Listen, Alec, about Wren... you may not get on with her very well.”

Alec actually frowned and said, “But we —” before he cut off in sudden understanding. “Oh. Well, right. I’ll let James know,” he said with a resigned little sigh, taking the mobile from his belt.

Q raised an eyebrow at him. “Bond?” he asked, watching Alec stab at the touchscreen.

Absently nodding, Alec said, “He does that sort of thing. Not me. Too much like work.” Then he glanced at Q and added, “No offence meant.”

Q grinned. “None taken. Enjoy the rest of your day, Alec. I’m sure you’ll charm someone suitable soon enough.”

“Feel free to send me any appropriate phone numbers,” Alec suggested with a grin. He turned and opened the door, calling, “Oi! Wren!” as he jogged out.

Q laughed to himself as he copied the Phoenix Project work to his server downstairs. Maybe he’d skip going home for dinner and yet another Buffy marathon in favour of staying at MI6 for the rest of the evening, finding a pet project to work on while he more thoroughly considered the situation with 007.

 

~~~

 

By the time Monday came around, Q had managed to convince the executive branch that the cameras-on-bugs programme was an excellent opportunity to invest in a university engineering scholarship, rather than diverting Q Branch from far more necessary tasks. Much as Q himself loved R&D, he didn’t have the time for it — not when he had agents in the field in need of support.

When he wrote up the inventory list to send to the engineering department at the University of Cambridge, he listed one extra bug as destroyed. He told himself that it was for later reference and had nothing to do with the fact that this _particular_ bug was the one that Bond had asked to keep.

Wren was the first one in on Monday morning, arriving a half hour early, apparently buzzing just from the fumes emanating from her extra-large, extra sugar espresso. She gave Q a bright grin and a cheery, “Morning!” as she kicked her shoes under her desk, took a clearly-unnecessary swig of caffeine, and logged in.

Oh. _Oh._ Q had been so caught up in running the new decryption program he’d been working on over the weekend (and thinking about Bond) that he’d completely forgotten to warn Wren about The Problem of Double O’s. He looked at her uncharacteristic cheerfulness and felt his stomach sink.

“Morning,” he said, watching her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Had a good weekend, I take it?”

She grinned over her shoulder at him. “You could say that. God, I love this job. I hope this programme of yours works out.”

“Oh,” he asked before he could stop himself. “Why is that?” Secretly, he was hoping she was going to mention some hot new supercomputer she’d hacked over the weekend in the name of Queen and country.

“That James Bond of yours.” She shivered visibly, still typing. “I haven’t had a weekend like that since uni.”

Q turned to pull his tablet out of his bag in order to log into his email. “One of our kind, is he?” he asked, studiously not watching her. He and Wren had run into each other a few times at local clubs for people of their particular tastes, occasionally sharing stories of ‘you won’t believe what this guy actually did’. Though he didn’t exactly consider her a friend in the strictest sense, they got along well enough, and he trusted her.

“Mmm,” she all but purred. “It was sweet of that Alec to set us up. I’d kind of twigged _him_ for, you know, but I guess he was just doing his friend a good turn or something.”

“It’s the muscle and scary assassin thing, I think, more than any actual signals he gives off,” Q said, secretly pleased that he wasn’t the only one who’d misread Alec.

“Pretty bastard, though. Maybe even prettier than James.”

Q chuckled. “That’s certainly true. And he has the benefit of actually being a nice bloke, even when he’s not trying to seduce you.” He tapped on an email response from an exec branch bean counter who had officially declared the camera bug program untenable, and breathed a sigh of relief. “So, what was he like? James?”

She hummed thoughtfully and snapped a secure drive into one of the computer’s USB ports. “Sneaky. One minute, we’re kissing, and I’m thinking maybe Alec steered me wrong, and the next, I’m damn near flying. Suspension ropework — not a single bruise he didn’t mean to leave. Not even tingling,” she added, wiggling her fingers. “The man’s a bloody professional. Of course, I suppose it makes sense. Said he doesn’t like chains because it’s too much like work.”

Q blinked, the image of him being handled the same way coming unbidden to his very active imagination. “That... must have been amazing. A rare thing to find, a man who can work a rope like that.” He swallowed and looked back down at his email. “I wonder if he’ll be able to top that, the next time you see him.” He silently cursed his lack of subtlety.

“Oh. Ah, yeah...” She shrugged a bit awkwardly. “There won’t be a ‘next time’. Said he’s not looking for a relationship or anything long term — and you know me. Play’s nice and all, but if some dom tries to take me down while I’m busy coding, he’s getting a face full of pepper spray.”

His startled laugh was perhaps more delighted than it had any right to be, and he looked over at her fondly. “I’d hate to see the result of that particular situation. It wouldn’t be pretty. For you, him, or the computer.”

She glanced at the door, then put down her coffee and padded silently over to Q. With a sly grin, she turned around and lifted her hair away from the back of her neck, where a faint ‘7’ was scratched into her nape — not quite hard enough to draw blood, but the mark would last for a few more days, at least. “He does blades, too, apparently. Guess that’s _not_ too close to work.”

It was only Ricoh bursting through the door that stopped Q from swearing very loudly and decidedly unprofessionally. As it was, he stood there blankly, but Wren saved them both from embarrassment by letting her hair fall over the ‘7’. “Thanks. I hate bloody clothing tags, don’t you?” she asked, walking back to her desk as if nothing were amiss.

“Did my search work?” Ricoh demanded, heading right for his workstation. “It should’ve emailed reports. Did you get reports, Ripper?”

Q looked over at him and blinked. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I did. Good work.” Then he pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text before he could change his mind.

_Dinner? — Q_

At the last minute, before he actually clicked ‘Send’, he put it on a delay, setting it for Wednesday evening.

Much less obvious, he told himself before getting back to work.

 

~~~

 

Q had his car idling at a red light, hoping that he’d make it home before he crashed from exhaustion, when his mobile alerted him to an incoming text. What should have been a routine document-forwarding to an allied nation turned into a complex political disaster that had all of Q Branch, Intentions & Analysis, and Logistics working overtime. He had three Double O’s in the field, with Bond on point to investigate the kidnapping of a member of the Australian parliament, since he’d worked with their local security service before. Q had all but lived on tea and coffee since the call came in on Monday afternoon, until he’d finally been exiled back home for at least twelve hours.

He looked down at the text and wondered why in hell Bond was sending him what had to be some sort of confused code. Duress?

_Love to. — Bond_

Q stared at it long enough, his fried brain processing at an incredibly slow rate, that the car behind him honked in irritation that he hadn’t moved fast enough at the light change. It took him the last two kilometres of his drive to realise that he’d programmed the damn text message delay in on Monday.

While he was parking, another text came in:

_It’s 0230 here. What time is it there that you’re asking this? Isn’t it late? — Bond_

Feeling a little like a teenager banished to their car for privacy, Q stayed in his car to answer.

_1800\. Sorry if I woke you. It’s been a long couple days. — Q_

Bond’s response came quickly enough that Q pictured him lying in bed, typing to the faint light of his mobile.

_I’ve noticed, in case you hadn’t. Where do you want to go? I can get reservations anywhere. — Bond_

Q smiled at Bond’s cockiness. As if he needed to be seduced. He didn’t think it would take Bond very long to figure out why Q had had a sudden change of heart, but he might as well take advantage of it while he could.

_J Sheekey. Whenever you get back and are recovered. — Q_

When there was no immediate answer, Q put his mobile away and dragged himself out of the car. He nearly locked the keys in and did lock his laptop in it. He retrieved it, re-locked the car, remembered to set the alarm, and went up the steps to his house. As he was unlocking the front door, his mobile alerted him to another text. He ignored it long enough to get inside, vaguely recalling the personal security briefings — not that his front door was going to stop even a mildly determined intruder.

_Reservation made, two weeks from this Friday. Get me better intel on these bastards. — Bond_

Two weeks until their date. For a moment, his brain stuttered. A date with Bond.

_Standby. — Q_

He walked over to his desk, turned on his three computers, and resignedly stumbled over to his coffee pot.

_Not now, bloody idiot. It’s not even 0300 here, and if I know you, you haven’t slept. Go to bed. — Bond_

Q smiled, put the pot back, and made his way back to his bedroom without bothering to turn the computers back off.

_Tomorrow then. — Q_

He fell into bed without even bothering to strip.


	4. Chapter 4

Q stared at himself in the mirror, feeling ridiculously foolish. He was worrying about how he looked and what he wore. He — Q, master of nonchalance, perfectly aware that his body was acceptable by most standards — had already changed his clothes twice.

He wanted sexy, but nothing that made it look like he was trying too hard. He wanted easily removed, for obvious reasons, but things that could be pulled off over one’s head tended to look less formal than a man like Bond seemed to enjoy.

A three piece suit was out: way too much clothing and far too many buttons. Jeans and a T-shirt were out: not nearly formal enough. He looked at what he was wearing now critically — a deep red button up shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a pair of not-exactly-indecently tight black trousers. _Not bad_ , he thought. For last minute effect, ruffled his hair a little, letting it slip naturally out of his more work-appropriate styling, and rolled the cuffs halfway up his forearms. It had been more than three weeks since Chris, so his arms were, for once, unbruised.

Bond had texted him this morning to confirm that he’d pick Q up at his place at 1900, and Q had inwardly chuckled at the old-fashionedness of it. But it meant that he had ten minutes left — just enough time to decide between Converse and shiny black shoes. He was just sliding on the latter when the doorbell rang.

He’d seen Bond at the office since he’d been back, of course, though only in passing. Bond had been back from Australia for something like twenty hours, and he’d rather amazingly made it without the need for a trip to Medical. His equipment was another matter, but even Q hadn’t designed Bond’s palmprint trigger lock to be proof against jellyfish. It was currently baking in a dehydration oven for the weekend (or longer); Q really had no desire to go poking around in tech that was... squishy. As soon as Bond had handed over the Walther, Q had issued him a backup weapon, knowing he’d be more comfortable if he could stay armed.

Apparently Bond had gone home to change. Earlier, he’d been in one of his usual too-well-fitted suits. Now, he wore casual dark blue jeans that might well have been spray painted on and a soft black button-down shirt with short sleeves folded up even higher to show off his biceps. Despite it being winter in Australia, he’d managed to maintain his tan.

Q stood at the door for a long moment, taking in the view. It was ridiculously, bloody unfair that Bond could look so good so effortlessly — Q doubted he’d done the same thing with the mirror.

“Let me just grab my wallet,” he finally said, waving an arm for Bond to wait inside while he went back to the bedroom for it and his mobile.

Naturally, Bond followed him up the stairs, looking around with interest, nosy bastard that he was. He stopped just inside the bedroom doorway. Q didn’t turn to look at Bond’s reaction — honestly, he was slightly annoyed but didn’t give in to it. His walls were covered in photographs of the world’s most beautiful waterfalls. Some were his own work, the falls being within a train ride’s distance. Others were the work of his parents, who had been travel photographers before they’d died. Bond raised his eyebrow, curious, but Q wasn’t going to explain.

The rest of the room and furniture (a bed, a side table, a chair, and a set of bookshelves) was warm and brown — natural wood and earth-tone fabrics — but devoid of personal touches beyond the photographs. Q considered the bedroom to be his sanctuary, and kept only a tablet, an alarm clock, and some books in here. He grabbed his wallet and phone off the table so he could leave before Bond could comment.

Without saying a word, Bond trailed after him back downstairs and out the front door. Only when Q had turned to lock the door did Bond say, “You look good.”

“Thank you. So do you,” he said with a pleased smile. He scanned the street, looking for Bond’s car. Good was an understatement, really, but it wouldn’t do to get too trigger happy with the compliments this early in the evening. After one more thoughtful glance, he stepped close and hooked a polite arm around Bond’s. “Shall we?”

A heartbeat later, his arse and shoulders hit the door hard enough to rattle the glass. One single finger pressed to his sternum, holding him in place.

“Tell me one thing first,” Bond said pleasantly. “Is this a business dinner, a dinner date, or are you looking for something more?”

Q’s breath left him more from the surprise than the actual physical contact. He grinned at Bond. “I suppose we can discuss business if you like, but I much prefer some combination of the latter two.”

Bond stared at him for a few long, silent seconds. Then he nodded and took hold of Q, a light hand circling around his arm, just above the elbow. It was polite and innocuous, almost too light, but Q felt the solid press of Bond’s fingertips and knew that he couldn’t pull away before Bond could close his fingers, trapping him.

At the car, Bond opened and closed the passenger door for him, before circling around to the driver’s seat. He glanced sidelong at Q, checking his seatbelt, before he started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

“What are your limits?” Bond asked, not bothering with smalltalk.

“Well, so much for my planned topic for after dinner,” Q said without looking at Bond. “No significant damage, and nothing permanent at all without express permission.” Once upon a time, he might have insisted on no scarification, but that 7 over Wren’s spine left him open to possibilities. “No ear plugs. I just don’t like them.”

Bond threw a quick look at him, raising a brow expectantly. “Is that all?”

Q shrugged. “I prefer to start with an open mind. I’ll tell you if you do something I don’t like. To be honest, I prefer knots to acute pain, but I understand that” — he flicked a quick glance at Bond — “people like you often prefer more than just tying knots.” In his experience, it was very, very rare to find someone willing to stop with mere bondage.

“People like me,” Bond repeated. “I suggest you avoid assuming anything about me.”

“Then perhaps you should tell me about your preferences,” Q shot back.

“Learning exactly what you want and how you think, and then making you forget _everything_ but us.”

Nothing Q hadn’t heard before, though very few had ever come even close to achieving it. “I look forward to it,” he promised. If Bond could take Wren down, Q figured he had a decent shot. “Oh, I’m allergic to peanuts,” he added. “So no peanut butter, even if that’s your thing.”

Bond smiled for the first time since starting the discussion. “Nothing with an expiry date. And nothing medical — which should come as no surprise. No other health issues or phobias I should know about?”

“Not a single one,” Q said, smiling back. “People tend to think of me as fragile, but I’m really not. I’m in excellent health, and in excellent shape” — he paused, openly admiring Bond — “well, compared to most people.”

“I noticed,” Bond said bluntly, giving Q an admiring glance.

“Oh,” Q said, blinking. He had been prepared for an argument over his weight. “Thanks.”

“For how long can I have you?”

“I don’t have to be back in the office — Oh. Monday’s a bank holiday, isn’t it?”

Bond looked at him. Apparently he’d been entirely aware of that when he’d chosen Friday night for their dinner, rather than arranging to go out the night he came back from his mission.

“Ah. But you knew that.” Q frowned. “I wish I would have thought of it earlier. You could have warned me to pack a toothbrush, at least, if you were thinking that far ahead.” He started mentally scanning the logistics of it — it stood to reason that he wouldn’t really need a change of clothes as long as he kept his current ones off the floor, or from getting... soiled, in any way.

This time, Bond’s look was puzzled. “You want to go to _my_ place?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Doms usually kept their preferred tools and supplies in their bedrooms — hell, Q could remember a few remarkable instances of special rooms full of hooks and eye bolts just for the creative application of bondage skills.

“It won’t happen,” Bond said, turning his attention back to the road. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not.” Q looked over at him curiously. He wondered what the reason was, but it wasn’t worth questioning if it made Bond uncomfortable. “You should know, though. I don’t have any scotch. I’m more of a tequila person, myself.”

“We won’t be drinking tonight — not until we’re done, whether it’s tonight or Monday.”

Now Q stared openly. This was getting odder by the minute. “Okay,” he said carefully. “Will I be allowed a glass or two of wine with dinner, at least?” he asked with a slight smirk.

Bond gave a slight shrug. “You can do as you like, Q. But _we_ won’t be doing anything until tomorrow, if you drink with dinner.” He took a breath and said, “If you want a perfectly normal date, that’s fine, too. We don’t have to do anything else at all.”

“A perfectly normal date with someone who doesn’t do relationships,” he said, thinking back to Wren’s words. “Not bloody likely. I’ll have coffee.” As essential as this conversation was, he felt relief when he realised they were getting close to the restaurant. “Or soda. Or whatever they have that’s heavily caffeinated.”

Relaxing fractionally, Bond asked, “Are you addicted? I don’t want you risking a headache or migraine.”

Q shot him a look before he realised that Bond wasn’t actually at headquarters enough to have observed Q’s caffeine habits. “I require tea in the mornings, but a cup or two is sufficient.”

Bond nodded, falling thoughtfully silent for the last few minutes of the drive. They ended up parking at a hotel a short distance away from the restaurant, which was tucked off St. Martin’s Lane. After dropping the car at the valet stand, Bond extended his left hand to Q, pulling him over to that side of his body, though he didn’t insist that Q hold his hand.

“Stay to my left,” Bond said. Then, with a wry smile, he asked, “Or did you go through that with Alec already?”

Q chuckled, keeping a loose arm around Bond’s. “Poor Alec. What a doomed evening that was. Fortunately our personal and professional relationships emerged unscathed.”

Bond huffed, his smile a bit more genuine. “He was put out that he didn’t get to actually kill anyone that night. You should know better than to tease our division like that. Next you’ll get yourself kidnapped and have the gall to escape while we’re still trying to find you.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t purposely done. I had no idea Alec was such a” — Q paused — “nice guy.” He decided it was probably unwise to bring up Chris, so he skated around the topic. “As for the kidnapping — let’s hope we never have to find out.”

“You’re safe this weekend, at least.” Bond moved his hand to the small of Q’s back, turning him down the side street that led to the restaurant. Despite the upscale crowd that was out in the damp evening, he bluntly asked, “Is there anything else I should know? Anything you particularly like, other than rope bondage?”

“Well,” Q said thoughtfully. “I suppose I enjoy the strategic use of leather and silk if done correctly. But I find it requires a special touch not many master.” He cast a sideways look at Bond.

Instead of asking for clarification, Bond asked, “What about submission?” Q stopped, as did Bond a moment later. Frowning, Bond asked, “Is that a ‘no’?”

“Not at all. Let me explain.” Q took a moment, organising his thoughts properly. “I have a ridiculously stressful job. I make so many decisions — not just what to have for dinner or whether you should be sent to Australia or Iran. Big decisions that affect not just lives but the state of nations.” He paused. “I just need to be taken out of my head sometimes. And however you can do that for me, I’m a willing participant.”

Bond took Q’s arm and pulled him to the side, close to the nearby building. “Ground rules,” he said, lifting his left hand to Q’s face. Even here, in the crowded heart of an upscale district, he kept his right hand free, his body angled just slightly to block Q from the passers-by. “Complete honesty. If there’s something you need, ask for it. If there’s something you don’t want, you tell me. Do you have a safeword?”

“Agreed. And yes — it’s Willow.”

“Don’t anticipate what you think I want to hear. Just answer the question, and nothing else,” Bond said. “Do you have a safeword?”

Q smiled. “Willow.” Oh, this was going to be _fun_.

“That’s twice. I thought you were a genius. _Do you have a safeword?_ ” Bond repeated, his voice still low but intent.

A literal mind; Q should have guessed. That was bloody fantastic — and promising. “Yes.”

Bond’s left hand dropped down Q’s arm to take hold of his wrist. He didn’t look away, but Q knew he was aware of their surroundings just by how he tensed and shifted subtly every time someone walked too close. “What is it?”

“Willow.” His eyes flicked to some of the passers-by who were looking at them oddly. So far he didn’t recognise anyone — not that he cared; it was just a matter of curiosity. He wondered what the statistical likelihood of running into someone from work here was.

“Willow. All right. Unless there’s something I need to know, don’t worry about them.” Bond’s fingers tightened — not painfully, but solidly, immovably there, clasped around Q’s wrist. “You don’t have to say anything else. If you want a quiet dinner, that’s fine. If you want to talk, that’s also fine. Order what you like — just keep in mind what I said about alcohol. Understand so far?”

“Yes.” Q moved his wrist a little, testing the grip even as he watched Bond’s eyes. He allowed the movement but didn’t relax his fingers at all.

“If you do talk, I want honesty — complete honesty. The same goes for all of your answers. If I’m asking a question, there’s a reason. Are we agreed?”

Q frowned. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Bond, but that was asking a lot. He watched Bond, who he didn’t actually know that well, considering. If he could agree, it would probably be worth his time. And he was far, far too intelligent to actually let himself be taken advantage of. Still — something in the back of his brain twitched uncomfortably at giving someone so much power over him.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if Bond was likely to ask him to spill highly classified information. And if he did, Q wouldn’t safeword out — he’d have him arrested.

“Yes,” he finally answered.

“Is there anyone you want to tell about this?” He laughed wryly and added, “Alec, perhaps? He’s probably the only one who could take me out, you know.”

Q thought about his painfully short list of personal contacts, none of whom would notice if he went missing. Bond was right — Alec would be the logical choice — but Q knew damned well that if Bond wanted to hurt him or make him vanish, there was no way he’d get a text or call out anyway. “No.”

Bond nodded. “If you change your mind, just say so,” he invited, stepping back as he released Q’s wrist. He apparently didn’t expect an answer; he just took Q’s arm and started walking again, heading for the restaurant.

 

~~~

 

At first, Q was quiet, engaged in watching the restaurant and studying the menu. When they ordered — no wine, Bond was pleased to note — Q seemed calm, not waffling about what he should or could order. Thankfully, there were none of those irritating quick glances every few seconds to search for any sign of disapproval. If Bond wanted that, he’d get a bloody golden retriever and hire a dog-walking service while he was on missions.

Still, given that the evening had started well, he assessed what he knew of Q’s mind and gave him between five and ten minutes. So split the difference, call it seven and a half. Q seemed disinclined to talk, so Bond cut another minute or so off that estimate, and began to watch Q expectantly, trying to read his thoughts.

Distractingly, he looked good. How had Alec phrased it when Bond had asked him why in hell he was going out with the Quartermaster? ‘He cleans up nicely.’ There was truth to that. Normally, Bond preferred partners (male or female) who didn’t seem so fragile, but there was a wiry, hidden strength to Q that Bond never would’ve noticed, if not for Alec’s interest.

Well that, and what he’d seen that night from the balcony. Christ, it was almost too much to believe that he’d finally be able to bury that visual under new experiences of his own. In a weekend, he could do everything that occurred to him, unlock every secret corner of Q’s over-worked, over-brilliant mind, and finally get Q out of his system.

Q didn’t even last six minutes.

Bond watched as Q’s eyes went distant. A very slight frown creased his brow, and his fingers twitched.

Silently, Bond reached across the table and took hold of Q’s hand, watching his expression.

Q’s eyes snapped right back to his hand before flicking up to Bond’s eyes. The frown didn’t vanish, but the twitching stopped. He tilted his head with an unasked question, but still didn’t say anything.

There were no proper corner booths — this wasn’t a restaurant Bond would have chosen to start a weekend like this — but he’d arranged to be seated at the back end of the long row of tables. He’d guided Q to sit on the booth-style bench against the wall, leaving Bond the chair. It put his back to the room, but in the back corner, this wasn’t as much of a problem as it might have been.

Honestly, his concern was centred less around threats — though he was very conscious that, formal bodyguard or not, the security of an MI6 branch director was in his hands — and more around privacy. In this district, they were less likely to encounter any sort of homophobia, at least openly, but he also didn’t want to get them thrown out.

Bond turned Q’s right hand over, pressing the back against the tablecloth. He slid his hand flat over Q’s, conscious of the sight lines. The table settings and tiny lamp blocked the discreet view from the next table over, and the couple seated there were more interested in one another than in what Bond and Q were doing.

Deliberately, he pressed two fingers down on Q’s wrist with steady force, not meant to hurt, but to help him focus.

The frown lines disappeared, and Q’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t seem nervous, merely curious and expectant.  But he didn’t shift his gaze from Bond’s.

With someone else, Bond might have told him to count his heartbeats. Q, though, struck him as too intellectual. Introduce numbers and he’d start calculating his resting heart rate or trying to affect it through breathing or posture, and in minutes he’d be distracted calculating how long it would take to displace the oxygen in the room with inert gas to suffocate everyone in the restaurant.

So Bond kept the pressure steady, watching Q without self-consciousness, and very gently started to roll his fingertips forward in tiny, unnoticeable increments. He’d learned how to keep from triggering spring-loaded traps this way, by applying minute shifts of pressure until he could feel when the trap was ready to trip. Now he used that same skill on Q, mentally counting and gauging how close he was to getting distracted again.

The waiter’s appearance reset the situation. Bond didn’t move his hand; to an outside observer, it looked like their hands were resting one atop the other, perfectly innocent. The waiter delivered their drinks and starters, and Bond eased the pressure back to a light but steady touch, giving Q the option of moving his hand if needed.

Q was apparently adept enough at using his left hand that he didn’t move his right. He shook the napkin out onto his lap, added milk and sugar to his coffee, and drank it all with his left. Apparently, carrying the actions out using his non-dominant hand was enough to distract him for a short time, but as soon as he quit moving, Bond could feel him withdrawing into his own thoughts again.

He went back to changing how his fingers rested on Q’s skin, applying more pressure with his fingertips as he lifted his palm just slightly. It was a pickpocket’s technique — a press higher up on the body to distract from a lower touch — and Q didn’t seem to notice as Bond’s hand shifted forward.

He only noticed when Bond’s blunt, short nails pressed against his skin, with no warning.

Q’s gaze momentarily dropped to Bond’s fingers, but he settled back and raised his eyebrows, attitude very obviously challenging.

Instead of even looking at the press of his fingernails into Q’s soft, sensitive skin, Bond asked, “How well can you see without your glasses?”

Q straightened in surprise. “Not well at all.” He raised his left hand up to adjust them in an almost unconscious movement.

“If I ask you to, will you take them off?”

The answer wasn’t instantaneous — Q seemed to be thinking about it carefully. “Yes, if they stay within my reach,” he finally answered.

“Take them off. Keep them on your side of the table,” Bond said, dragging his nails down a half inch, scratching just hard enough to add a stinging edge to the touch.

The slight sting caused Q to look down in surprise, though the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. He stared down at his place setting for a long moment (probably memorising the placement of things) before he did as Bond asked. He settled the glasses far enough away from the edge to keep them from accidentally being knocked to the floor. Then he sat back again, eyes completely unfocused, waiting.

Bond let his fingers relax, pushing against Q’s wrist as he flexed them forward again. He slid his thumb down to the side, hinting at circling Q’s wrist. Without his glasses, Q’s eyes seemed larger, the hazel deeper and more intricately coloured. Unembarrassed, Bond let himself study Q’s eyes, only looking away occasionally whenever he remembered that there was food at the table.

The conversations around them were as soft as possible, as if the diners were striving for intimacy in an environment of hard floors, too few booths, and a loud kitchen. Bond lowered his voice, though not as much as he might have at a different restaurant, and took note of Q’s steady pulse before he asked, “Is there a particular type of bondage you prefer?”

“Shibari,” he answered quietly and without hesitation.

Bond nodded, hiding his smile. Given what he’d seen, he could have guessed, but he wasn’t going to base anything on a snapshot-glimpse of a few seconds. Still, he was glad that his wishful thinking, when he’d packed for the weekend, would pay off.

He paid less attention to the excellent food and more to Q, allowing his fingers to occasionally shift and move, learning how Q’s bones felt under his skin. He was tempted to move up to his forearms, but resisted. He had the rest of the long holiday weekend.

Instead, when the waiter came to clear their plates and refill their drinks, he shifted back in his seat and dragged his fingers from Q’s wrist to his hand. His skin was dry, a bit rough at the edge of his hand, as if he neglected himself. Distracted easily, Bond guessed. He could only imagine how often Q didn’t bother to eat, and he made a mental note to keep closer watch this weekend than he normally might. He had no interest in controlling every aspect of Q’s life this weekend — the golden retriever analogy came to mind again — but he didn’t want Q’s attention diverted by hunger at the wrong moment.

Only after the main courses were delivered did Bond speak again, saying, “You mentioned ‘acute pain’ earlier.”

“Pain can be good, if it’s done right. Tight ropes, rough hands, harsh handling.” Q looked down in the general direction of Bond’s hand, though Bond was fairly certain he couldn’t actually see it clearly. “Scratches and cuts can be nice, too.”

Interesting. Incidental _and_ deliberate pain, with no mention of far more common methods. Not that Bond was particularly arguing with that. He was already ducking the physiotherapist for his shoulder. The last thing he needed was aggravating the gunshot wound while remembering how to use a damn whip without killing himself or Q.

He released Q’s hand so they could both eat. Q might have managed the trout one-handed, but all Bond would end up doing with his shellfish was tossing them around like bait — perhaps the only situation in which a golden retriever might be _useful_ , assuming they ate shellfish, shells and all.

But the thought reminded him to ask, “What about food? You _are_ going to eat this weekend, no matter your usual self-neglecting diet.” He smiled to show he was teasing, before wondering if Q could even see his expression clearly.

Q shrugged, his lack of focus on Bond’s face answering the question of what he could see. “I’m not that picky,” he said. “Sandwiches. Soup. Pasta. I’m not a very good cook, and the truth is I don’t care to spend time on it, so I hope you’re not picky either. I do, of course, have a stack of takeaway menus.” With impressive aim considering he probably couldn’t see the plate, Q stabbed a fork into the roasted artichokes on the side of his plate and ate one happily. “These are actually quite good, though.”

No mention of food as a kink, which was also fine with Bond. He’d been honest regarding expiry dates, and food wasn’t meant to be eaten once it was no longer at appropriate serving temperature.

“Bodily fluids?”

Q didn’t bother to hide his look of disgust. “Saliva when appropriate, semen when appropriate, blood if it happens, and that’s it.”

Bond nodded, perfectly happy to go along with those limits. “Humiliation?” he asked, trying not to sound apprehensive. He could accommodate — and ironically his MI6 training made him damned good at it — but it did little for him. More important, it would make working with his Quartermaster even more awkward than it already would be.

“Absolutely not,” Q said firmly.

This time, he didn’t hide his relief as he nodded.

He turned his attention back to his dinner, preferring to eat lightly, at least at the start of what he had planned. Idly, he wondered if he should’ve warned Q that they’d be spending the weekend at his house, but thinking back, he decided Q’s reaction had been surprise, not upset. Had Q pushed, Bond would have suggested one of a number of hotels with suites large enough and expensive enough that no one would hear — or at least complain.

There was no way Bond would learn everything about Q’s preferences and dislikes, even if they spent the entire weekend doing nothing but talking. Dinner distracted Q for a good ten minutes. Once he was done, Bond put down his silverware, too, and their waiter came to clear the plates a moment later.

“Do you want dessert?” Bond asked Q, before the waiter could start making helpful suggestions.

“How long have you been tying knots?” Q asked instead of answering, though he looked a little surprised at himself for having asked the question. “And, no thank you.”

Bond couldn’t hide his smile. He waved away the scandalised waiter with a request for the cheque before saying, “Kincaid taught me all sorts of useful tricks for hunting and survival when I was just a boy. He’s — he _was_ the gamekeeper at Skyfall. He still watches the property. Eventually, I figured out that what’s useful for tying a fishing lure or a snare can be put to other uses. Shibari, though... I was sixteen? Barely seventeen, if that. Studied for a semester abroad in Japan, and ended up staying for almost a year.”

“That’s amazing. It’s an art form, with some of the more intricate configurations taking hours.” Q tilted his head in a way that Bond was learning meant he was considering a question. “Is it the knots themselves for you? The artistry?”

“It’s the motion, actually,” Bond said, surprised by the question. “It can be immobilising, but it can just as easily be completely without restriction. I could have you wrapped in a hundred feet of rope under the clothing you’re wearing now, and no one would ever know, looking at you. You’d feel it with every breath, but you’d be able to move any way you liked.”

“Thank you for your explanation,” Q answered, his voice catching slightly. “I think I might like to try that sometime.”

“Tomorrow,” Bond said. He was practiced at ignoring the little stab of anxiety he felt at the implication that there would be a ‘sometime’ beyond the planned end of their time together. Q had already mentioned that Bond didn’t ‘do relationships’; foolishly, Bond assumed that meant Q had spoken to Wren or Alec and understood that this was a single, fixed event. For now, though, he asked, “Do you have any other questions?”

“Oh, I always have endless questions. I’m just well-practised at their judicious use and strategic application,” Q said with a rueful grin. “And I didn’t necessarily mean trying it with you — I was under the impression that you had no plans to leave my flat this weekend.” The grin sharpened.

“I didn’t plan to leave you unbound this weekend,” Bond countered.

Q straightened, breathing speeding up, and he fumbled for his glasses. “Fuck yes,” he said under his breath. “Thank god I didn’t order dessert.”


	5. Chapter 5

The drive back to Q’s house seemed twice as long. Bond was aware of every breath Q took, of precisely how he sat in the passenger seat, of the way he toyed with the seat belt strap across his chest and stared out the windscreen. He was wearing his glasses again, and Bond was tempted to tell him to take them off, pocket them, and cross his wrists behind his back.

If they went out this weekend — unlikely, but still possible — he would. For now, he thought about everything else he wanted to do.

When he’d first started experimenting with BDSM, he would plan a scene, no matter how short or long, down to the least detail. After just a few disasters, though, he’d broken himself of that habit. More than once, he’d reflected that it might well be the reason he was so successful as a field agent: He could improvise _anything_.

Q was silent for the duration of the drive. At every red light, Bond turned to look at him, letting his senses take in everything. He put aside his concerns and any lingering doubts; once he started, only Q’s safeword or an emergency would get him to stop. There was no more room for regret, not now or later.

He found parking not far from Q’s house and took the spot, though he’d debated dropping Q off first. Once he had the engine off, he unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to Q. “Last chance. Do you still want to do this, or should I go?”

Q met his gaze calmly, without hesitation. “I still want to do this. Do you need help carrying anything?”

Bond considered only for a moment before shaking his head. “No, thank you.” Q was clever; as soon as he saw the duffel bag and overnight suitcase, he’d be filling them from his own imagination. Handing either over would give him too much to focus on and distract him.

He got out of the car and went around to the passenger side to get Q’s door. When Q stood, Bond caught him by the back of the neck and pulled him close, tasting Q’s lips with a swipe of his tongue.

Q smiled and nipped Bond’s mouth before pulling back. “I’ll unlock the door, shall I?” he said, raising his eyebrows just a bit. He unbuttoned his jacket to reach for his keys.

Bond let him go only because they were in public, outside his house. He stepped out of Q’s way and went to get everything from the boot. The suitcase had wheels, but he didn’t bother with them; he closed the boot, set the car alarm, and carried everything to where Q was waiting just inside the foyer.

“I’ll lock up down here. Do you have an alarm that needs to be set?” he asked, not waiting for Q to even close the door.

“Yes,” Q answered, with a crooked grin that meant he was falling back on Bond’s rules already.

Bond rewarded the obedience with another kiss as he shoved the door closed with his foot. This time, he dropped the bags and got both hands in Q’s hair, using the tangled strands to pull him close and hold him still.

Q groaned as he let himself be pulled forward, his body tensing in a way that felt like he was balancing himself — letting Bond take control without giving up his own ability to move and react. For now, Bond let it happen; by the end of the weekend, he was determined that Q would simply give in and trust Bond not to let him fall.

He didn’t release Q until he was satisfied with his surrender to the kiss. Then he picked up his bags and asked, “Is there anything else you need to do downstairs?”

“Yes.”

Bond grinned. “What?”

“Feed the frogs and set the alarm.”

 _Frogs?_ Bond wondered. Q had frogs? Bond had worked around a lot of strange hazards — cats who chased ropes, dogs who barked at the sound of whips, and a couple of very curious horses who wanted to know why humans were playing in their stable. Frogs, though... that was new.

“How often do they need to be fed?”

“Once every three days.” Q smiled proudly. “Would you like to see?”

“Did I ask to see?” Bond countered sharply, ignoring his curiosity. He _did_ want to see them, but tomorrow, during a downtime. It would be the perfect break for Q. For now, though, it was just a delay.

Q’s sigh was resigned, but the flicker of challenge was still in his expression. “No.”

“Lock up, set the alarms, feed the frogs, and come upstairs,” Bond said, and headed upstairs, listening to the sound of Q locking the front door. Hopefully the disappointment wouldn’t be too much of a distraction at first, but he’d find a way to work around it.

For now, he set his bags down in the bedroom and went to check the windows and balcony door. After verifying that they were locked, he pulled the curtains. The wardrobe was freestanding, a matching piece to the four-poster bed. Bond opened it, found an empty hanger, and hung his jacket. The fact that Q had issued him his Walther meant that for once he didn’t have to worry about securing it from his partner. He took off the shoulder rig, left the weapon holstered, and set it on the dresser across from the bed.

He left the overnight suitcase by the wardrobe and carried the other bag to the armchair. He set it on the seat, unzipped it, and started digging through his ropes. He’d left the black at home — again, he wanted no associations with Chris — and decided to start with the natural hemp. It was just dark enough to stand out against Q’s skin, and though it looked fibrous and scratchy, it was surprisingly soft. He threw a half dozen neatly wrapped bundles of different lengths and diameters onto the bed.

The sounds of Q coming up the stairs alerted him to the fact that he was done already. Q stopped in the doorway, watching Bond with a small smile, not saying anything. His eyes fell on the hemp rope and he frowned just a little before recovering quickly. When he met Bond’s gaze, he didn’t move, but waited calmly leaning against the doorframe.

“Is there anything else you need to do around the house tonight?” Bond asked, feeling his pulse pick up. He wanted to tell Q to strip right now, but he reminded himself that there was time.

“No.” He eyes flicked to the doors and windows, then landed on the gun briefly before turning back to Bond.

“Do you want me to lock that away somewhere?” Bond offered. He wouldn’t like it, but he preferred for Q to be comfortable.

“No.” He leaned his head against the doorframe, watching but not really observing anymore. He was just waiting.

The shortest bundle of rope was an eighth of an inch in diameter and just two yards. Bond picked it up and walked over to Q, who straightened a bit but said nothing. Gently, Bond set his free hand to Q’s cheek and leaned down to kiss him. “You are absolutely gorgeous, you know,” he said, surprising himself by speaking his thoughts aloud.

He silenced any answer Q might have had with a kiss, gentler than the one they’d shared in the foyer. He indulged this time, closing his eyes and losing himself in Q’s mouth for a few long seconds. He pulled back just enough to say, “Unless I tell you otherwise, you’re allowed to touch me, if you’d like,” before he turned his head and kissed Q again.

He could feel Q’s surprise and hesitance in his body language as one of his hands came up to rest on Bond’s spine between his shoulderblades. Quietly, encouragingly, Bond told him between nips, “That’s good, Q. Touch now, before I tie you down so you can’t.”

Q shuddered a little, then moved his other hand to Bond’s side, reaching to slip cold fingers into Bond’s waistband over his hip. The hand between his shoulderblades pressed a little harder, nails digging lightly, before dragging up to land at the base of his neck. Q gently pressed his thumb there, rubbing it in circles over the vertebrae.

Bond put his arms around Q, over his shoulders, and opened the rope bundle, letting the length drop free to the floor, without tangling. He broke the kiss to lick at Q’s lips again, as he slid one end of the rope up over his shoulder, high up by his neck. The drag of thin, conditioned hemp made Q shudder again, pleasantly. Bond carefully dragged the end in front of Q’s throat and back around. He picked up the tail end and started winding it slowly around Q’s neck, just tight enough for him to feel it against his skin without any pressure to interfere with his breathing or circulation.

Q’s breath caught, and he tipped his head up and to the left slightly without breaking the kiss. His body seemed to still under Bond’s hands; only his fingers moved, pressing just a little harder into Bond’s skin. Carefully, Bond started to weave the rope across itself, looping the end under the wraps and pulling just tight enough to trap the strands. He held the loops closed with tension, setting another one every couple of inches, until there was little chance that one wrap would snag on something and tighten.

When he was finished, he found the other loose end and started to weave both ends into the wraps and around one another, forming a square that wouldn’t come loose, despite having no knots. He smoothed the rope collar against Q’s skin before he slipped his little finger under and gave a sharp pull.

The same tension from before returned to Q’s body— he tensed as his body braced itself, while still allowing himself to be pulled forward. His hands relaxed just marginally before they tightened even more than they had before — enough that Bond could feel Q’s nails through the fabric of his shirt. He breathed in sharp and quick, not fighting it.

“Go brush your teeth, clean up, and get ready as if you were going to bed. No showering yet.” Bond let go of the collar reluctantly — the natural rope looked surprisingly good against Q’s skin, in contrast with his long, dark hair. “When you’re finished, take off your clothes and come back in here. Any questions?”

“No,” Q replied, voice gone lower and rougher than Bond had heard before. He watched Bond with an intense gaze for a long moment before turning away to do as Bond asked.

Bond stayed in the doorway for a minute, watching Q walk, and then listening as he turned on the water and closed the door. Mentally, he’d shifted into a more aware, alert state, as if he were on a mission — the whole reason a lot of field agents _didn’t_ do this sort of thing in their downtime. Most were extraordinarily boring between missions, in fact — strictly vanilla types, which was far too dull to have any appeal for Bond. Of the rest, as far as he knew (and by now he knew most of them, even if they’d never played) most tended towards the submissive, except when in the field.

Not Bond. He lived for this; he needed it almost as much as he needed the life-or-death adrenaline rush of a mission. Even that little sense of doubt — could he do this? — was an indulgence that he didn’t permit himself in the field, where failure most likely meant death.

When Q finally emerged from the bathroom, he stopped short at the sight of Bond still standing in the doorway, watching him. His eyes darted past him quickly, checking the bedroom for who knew what, before landing back on Bond. He was completely naked, just as Bond had asked, all pale skin and wiry muscle.  His skin wasn’t completely free of marks — a handful of childhood scars, a long line over his stomach that indicated an appendectomy, and a handful of newer scars that looked deliberate: small, perfectly spaced, and even. There weren’t many — five or six — but they were in places that would be too hard for Q to reach with his own hand.

The longer Bond looked, the more Q’s expression shifted from surprise to challenge. He raised an eyebrow, waiting as Bond analysed. When Bond didn’t immediately say anything, Q walked up to him, paused, then slipped past him into the bedroom, stopping to stand in the middle, facing the bed.

Bond turned to watch, admiring the lines of his body. For someone who never ate, saw sunlight, or exercised, as far as Bond was aware, he was in surprisingly good shape — not nearly as fragile as he seemed at work. Bond let the sight of Q overwrite the one brief memory, pushing it out of his mind.

Only then did he walk up behind Q and touch just under the weave at the back of the collar. He pressed his finger against Q’s spine and slipped it up under the loops of rope, pulling them taut against the front of his throat. Q stiffened to keep his balance and made a small, almost delighted sound.

“Don’t fight me,” Bond said impulsively. He shifted a half-step closer and pulled at the collar again. He wrapped his right arm around Q’s body, trapping his arms and guiding him to lean back against Bond’s chest.

There was no mistaking Q’s response for acquiescence — he huffed, even as he leaned back, muscles flexing to keep his balance. It was clear that Q was trying, but his mind was too much in control of his body. Bond flattened his hand against Q’s body, thumb just brushing his lowest ribs, and bent his head to bite hard into Q’s shoulder, close to the rope collar. Q sucked in a startled hiss, flinching for a moment before he relaxed under Bond’s teeth. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath.

The soft curse went right to Bond’s gut like an electrical charge — the first tiny crack in Q’s armour. He let the feeling sink in, releasing the bite slowly. He licked, feeling the impression of his teeth, and let go reluctantly, hand skimming down Q’s body and over his hip as he stepped back.

“Stand at the foot of the bed, facing it,” he said, and went to get two short, half-inch ropes. Q moved to do as he was asked, shaking his arms out and rolling his head, obviously preparing himself for immobility. He stretched carefully, long lines of pale skin making perfect arcs as he rolled through classic stretches before he settled, shaking his hands out, facing the bed.

Bond put one bundle of rope in his shirt pocket; the other, he unrolled just enough to get at the end. He wrapped it, neatly but quickly, around Q’s right wrist several times, before he let the end fall. He twisted the short end and long one together, wrapped the short one underneath the loops, and tied it off with a quick knot.

He stepped back, holding the long tail of rope, and looked at the bed, before adjusting Q more closely to the direct centre. Then he tied off the rope to the bedpost, just above Q’s height, where the rope would catch on the decorative carvings.

Q watched curiously as Bond tied the other wrist identically, appreciation clear in his expression as he followed the movements of the rope. He looked like he wanted to say something, opening his mouth briefly, before closing it again to continue watching Bond work in silence.

Bond intentionally left the rope loose enough not to put much strain on Q’s shoulders, though it was too secure for him to easily free himself — assuming he could break one of the posts. Then he came back around behind Q and began to touch him, examining his back and shoulders not just with his eyes but with his hands. He petted, feeling the warmth of Q’s skin and the press of ribs and vertebrae. There was no need to rush, now that they’d begun.

 

~~~

 

Q stood quietly as he felt Bond explore his skin. One of the hardest parts of this, not only in the moment but for the entire evening, had been trying to keep silent. He’d almost warned Bond not to put too much faith in the strength of the bedposts, but stopped himself just as he was opening his mouth.  He trusted Bond’s competence to let him figure it out for himself.  It was a small challenge, but a challenge nonetheless.  He didn’t consider himself an overly chatty person by any stretch, but he took to the challenge of silence with an effort at control that he couldn’t seem to extend to his body.

So far, Bond hadn’t shown any interest in trying to break that mind-body dissonance — the bite was as close as he got so far to showing more than a slight display of dominance. It had worked for the briefest moment before Bond released him to start working with the ropes, but it didn’t last.

He’d thought that as soon as he was secure, Bond would start again, but he seemed to be absolutely content with taking his time in exploring. The touches varied from light to not-so-light, but they were in predictable patterns that didn’t keep him focused and grounded. He found himself zoning out slightly, thinking about the warehouse project he would resume working on when he got back into work.

When Bond stopped touching him, he focused only enough to notice that Bond had gone to get more rope — there were three more bundles on the bed, all of it the same natural tan. It was comfortable, almost soft (though not as soft as bamboo fibres), and didn’t itch at all.

Bond uncoiled the first rope with another simple, neat tug-and-throw. It wasn’t showy — just competent. No one liked dealing with tangles or twists.

He disappeared behind Q, who tried to anticipate what Bond would do next. His first guess was tie his feet, which would add an interesting tension to how his wrists were bound.

Then Q felt the rope pressed to the centre of his back, just over his spine. Bond reached around his body, guiding two strands around his chest, side-by-side. He pulled it through what must have been a loop at the back and then drew the ends up, separating them over Q’s shoulders. Despite working blind, he fed the ends of the rope neatly beneath the one that circled Q’s chest, snugging everything tight before he drew the strands back up, forming a deep vee from sternum to shoulders.

The tension was just enough for Q to feel the strands bite into his skin. It was more comfortable for him to inhale from the belly, though the harness that Bond wove wasn’t tight enough to interfere with Q’s breathing. Another set of loops went around his chest, just under his arms. Bond wove the ends into the back, tightening the harness a bit more, pulling all the ends together in what felt like a flat, woven square just below Q’s shoulders. The fastening was probably identical to the one on the collar, which Q had examined in the bathroom mirror. Though Bond had tied it blindly, it had been almost perfectly neat, with no out of place twists or errors in tension.

 _The man’s a bloody professional_ , Wren had said.

Q closed his eyes in an effort to better focus on what Bond was doing.  He could feel the surprisingly soft whispering sensations of ropes just brushing his skin before they were pulled into place. Q, whose sense of spatial recognition was almost unparalleled, was able to form an image in his mind of the configurations and knots as he mapped out the rope’s movements over his skin. He’d be sure to check it later — either by looking in a mirror, if he were able, or by asking Bond, if Bond were amenable — to see how valid his conclusions were.

Bond stepped away again, picking up one of the two remaining bundles of rope — the longest one. He waited until he was behind Q to uncoil it, and almost immediately started another harness over the first. This one, though, was a lattice that wrapped around Q’s body in broad X-shapes, each strand tugging on another, forming a shifting, moving design that Bond brought all the way down to Q’s waist before again fastening it with the same flat, woven knot, this time in front. Q watched, still wearing his glasses, as Bond wove the knot, and he wondered if Bond had tied it off in front for the design, for the tension, or so that Q could watch.

Instead of going for the last bundle of rope, Bond untied Q’s right wrist from the bed. He rested a hand on Q’s shoulder as he took hold of Q’s wrist and pulled it behind his back, so his forearm was parallel to the floor. Only then, when the stretch of muscles had changed and shifted to accommodate the new position, did Bond start to untie the rope from around his wrist.

“I want you to keep your arm still. Can you do that, or is it too much strain?” Bond asked quietly, still holding Q’s wrist against his back.

Q flexed his fingers a few times, testing the position of his arm and any resistance from his bindings. “I can hold it,” he said after a moment’s observation. He took a deep breath before Bond let go, letting his mind settle into the knots gracing his skin. He let his imagination take him through them like a maze, following the twists and turns, feeling tension slowly bleed away from his body.

Bond freed Q’s left wrist and set it just below his right forearm. Then, using one of the ropes that had been around Q’s wrists, Bond started more wraps, this time around both arms, weaving the loops through the two layers of harnesses surrounding Q’s body. Everything drew tighter, pulling Q’s shoulders back, trapping his arms with pressure from wrists to elbows.

His reaction was the same every single time, no matter who was doing the binding. His whole body froze in a moment of fight or flight response as it finally clicked that very soon, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop himself from getting hurt. It was the moment that always turned the evening from two equals playing a game to one having complete power over the other. Q had to take a moment to remind his rebellious nature that it was just a game, that he was fine, that everything would be fine. He mentally repeated his safeword for assurance. But, as it always did, his body refused to let go of the tension too quickly. Not that this would be nearly as gratifying if it did.

As soon as Bond felt it, he went still, resting a hand on the back of Q’s neck, just above his collar. His fingers slid through Q’s hair with a gentle, steady pull that grew harder in small increments, until Q’s head tipped back.

Eyes still closed, Q took long, deep breaths, forcing himself to relax and to trust. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, his muscles gave in, starting with the muscles in his forehead and moving down to his face, neck, and shoulders. The conscious release of power was as intoxicating as ever, and he felt a brief stab of triumph at his success of mind over body.

When Q relaxed, Bond released his hair and ran a hand down Q’s back, over the ropes, to his bound arms. He didn’t tug at the ropes, as if confident they hadn’t come loose, and he didn’t try to be coy about checking Q’s circulation. His hand continued down to the last wraps around Q’s waist, before he stepped back again.

Then Bond took the other rope and wound it around Q’s upper arms, through the harnesses, and back, easing it between each arm and his body, pinning his upper arms in place. From shoulders to waist, Q’s body was wrapped in tense but not tight coils and wraps of rope far too intricate for him to escape, even if Bond left him alone.

Then Bond tightened everything a bit more when he hooked one finger under several of the ropes and pulled just enough to shift everything. “Can you walk, or should I carry you?” he asked in a low voice.

“I can walk,” Q said without hesitation. He was completely unbound from the waist down, and his breathing wasn’t hampered enough by the coils to make it difficult. Even tied to immobility from neck to waist, Q was no weakling needing to be carried about.

Instead of a verbal answer, Bond pulled on the ropes again, this time using them to guide Q around the bed, to the side. He touched Q’s glasses, and when there was no immediate reaction, he slid them carefully off to set them on the bedside table. Then he turned back to Q, saying, “On your back or front. You choose.”

Q frowned. The whole point was to be taken out of his head, to not make decisions. He stood considering — back meant he could watch, front meant he wouldn’t have to be particularly responsive.

After just a few seconds, he felt Bond’s hand twist hard into his hair, hard enough to make his breath catch, before Bond shoved him down against the bed. “Up. Get up on the bed,” Bond ordered sharply, pushing him away from the edge of the mattress. While the still somewhat logical part of his mind bristled at the rudeness of it, most of him was just relieved. With very little grace — though not for lack of trying — he twisted himself to his knees on the bed and moved forward.

With rough, abrupt motions, Bond got Q’s legs spread, positioning him far enough from the edge that only his feet hung down. He had to brace a knee on the mattress to shove Q’s head down, twisting to the side to leave Q a clear way to breathe.

He took hold of the last rope, warned Q, “Don’t move,” and moved off to the side. Q’s body was trembling ever so slightly and deliciously at the rough treatment, but that was all the reaction he allowed himself. He could hear Bond tie off the rope to the bedpost at the foot of the bed, before he took hold of Q’s ankle and spread his legs even more. He wound the rope around his ankle three times before looping it around itself and knotting it off. Then he continued the excess rope to the other ankle, which he pushed away, leaving Q’s body open and vulnerable. He bound that ankle as well, before pulling the excess rope all the way to the other bedpost. A sharp tug tightened the rope, trapping Q’s ankles, spread wide, just over the edge of the mattress. The most he’d be able to move would be to lie flat.

And damn his body for betraying him again — he tensed again in a brief rebellion at the vulnerable position. He felt his heart race as his mind went through all the reasons this was a bad idea, and the laundry list was long, given that he knew more about Bond than he’d known about most of his other partners.

Bond was a highly trained (overtrained) assassin. An actual, honest-to-god assassin. They worked together. Q wasn’t his superior in the strictest sense, but he still had a little extra height on the org chart. If anything went wrong tonight, anything at all, he was risking a lot more than just a bad experience. It could jeopardise his job.

He let the thoughts run their course, knowing that it was too late to go back anyway. He turned his face into the duvet, taking solace in the darkness, and repeated the same meditation techniques he’d used earlier, focusing on individual muscles to force them to relax.

The far side of the mattress compressed, startling him. When had Bond moved around the bed? Last Q had checked, he was still wearing his shoes; how damned silent was he?

A whisper of those fears resurfaced, just as Bond took hold of his hair and pulled to lift his head. For a moment, he met Bond’s eyes, and he saw there an expression he’d never seen before: absolute desire. Q’s only thought was that this had to be the same intensity he brought to a kill — the same all-consuming focus. He felt like prey under Bond’s stare, but instead of scaring him, he found it absolutely exhilarating.

Then Bond pressed a blindfold to his face, the inner surface padded and shaped from contoured foam, the outer surface hard leather. It had multiple straps that Bond fastened in place, down to the back of his neck and across the back of his head, with another strap linking them to keep Q from rubbing the blindfold off against the mattress. They buckled tightly, with just enough elastic to maintain tension. Not even a hint of light came through at the bridge of his nose, where most blindfolds failed.

It was much more effective than pressing his face into the duvet, with the added benefit of allowing him to breathe freely. He felt his other senses start to kick in more strongly, and his mental map of the ropes rose in the inky black.

He listened to sounds at the chair again, where Bond had dropped his bag. Then he heard nothing, and he assumed Bond was moving, or maybe just standing there, watching.

He heard a sharp hiss, like a knife cutting through paper. Then he felt a touch right at his entrance — no playing around, no leading up to it. Bond’s finger was dry and warm, the tension just enough to make Q suddenly very, very conscious of just how vulnerable his position really was, before Bond’s hand moved away.

When the touch returned, his finger was still warm but slick now, though Q hadn’t heard anything. Bond eased his finger inside in tiny increments. _Now_ he was teasing, applying pressure in one direction and then another, pushing a bit deeper before pulling back all the way. Q relaxed into it, appreciating the slower approach that allowed him to catalogue the new sensations while blindfolded. It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced this before, of course, but every partner was different. He appreciated the new data. He imagined his nerve endings lighting up like dozens of tiny LEDs on the mental map of his bound body, and let his mind slip into calculations of how many nerves Bond was actually touching.

Bond finally pushed his finger deeper, deep enough that Q could feel his knuckle. Then Bond pulled his finger partially out again, but instead of forcing a second in, he stayed with just one, pushing deeper this time. Q’s appreciation melted into impatience — he knew himself well enough to know that if this continued, he soon was going to be very, very bored. There wasn’t enough randomness to the act to make it worth paying attention to.

He was still distracted when Bond finally pushed a second finger inside. Q’s body had relaxed to the point where there was no burn, just a faint discomfort that soon faded, making Q wonder exactly what Wren had been raving about. The rope work was good — very thorough — but not nearly enough to capture his imagination.

When Bond’s fingers finally withdrew, Q muffled a sigh into the duvet as his mind skipped ahead. Bond would fuck him, and it would be good, possibly very good, though nothing memorable. Then Bond would get Q off with his hands and untie all the ropes, except maybe the collar. They’d cuddle and Q would find an excuse to go downstairs and make some tea and find his laptop —

His thoughts scattered when he felt a hard, cool push into his body — most definitely _not_ Bond’s cock. It broadened quickly, becoming wider than just Bond’s two fingers. Bond backed off and pushed in, working Q open more quickly now, until the widest part of the plug passed inside. It was distracting, more distracting than he’d expected, especially since he _hadn’t_ expected it at all.

The possibilities for the rest of the evening widened and multiplied, and suddenly (blissfully) Q had no idea what to expect. What did Bond have left to do if he wasn’t going to just fuck him now that he had him all tied up?  He shivered in anticipation, mind skipping through various scenarios.

Bond released the rope holding his ankles to the bed, untying the four sets of knots from left to right. “Don’t break position,” he warned, sitting down on the mattress beside Q. He reached under Q’s body for the knotted rope at his waist, and suddenly Q realised there had been quite a bit of excess rope caught up in that decorative woven knot.

Bond took the two ends of rope, twisted them through the lattice to either side of Q’s abdomen, near his hips, and then pulled the ends down between his legs. The mattress rocked as Bond abruptly stood, and Q shivered at his absence, even though he’d barely touched Q’s body.

Strong fingers twisted into the ropes between Q’s shoulderblades, pulling him abruptly up to his knees, throwing him wildly off-balance for a moment as the mattress shifted. His body stiffened in an effort to keep him upright, but there was nothing for it. He couldn’t quite suppress a shout as he nearly toppled over.

“I have you,” Bond said calmly. “I could safely support twice your weight off this point.” He tugged the ropes again for emphasis, pulling Q back another half inch.

“Jesus Christ, Bond,” he said with a shudder. Whether it was the ropes themselves, the calm response, or the feeling of being Bond’s wickedly-controlled marionette, Q was delighted.

Bond bit Q’s shoulder, this time opposite the first bite, just outside the ropes that formed the vee down his chest. The bite was hard and long, a solid press of teeth that went from a sharp, surprising sting to a slow, deep burn, until the relentless pain had Q twitching involuntarily to try and escape. Bond’s hand stayed on the ropes at his back, trapping him helplessly. Only his hips and legs could move, and every shift there moved the plug inside his body, reminding him of Bond’s slow, patient fingers working him open just enough so he could force the plug into place.

For someone like Q, who spent a fair amount of energy mapping his body’s reactions to his environment, what was happening now was almost instant sensory overload. There was so much sensation over so much of his skin that his mind, for once, couldn’t keep up with it all. He struggled almost frantically for a moment even though every movement caused even more input. Bond, however, didn’t ease up. With what little concentration he had for it, Q evaluated his options, which basically boiled down to two things: safeword out, or find a way to process.

The idea of safewording out was beyond repulsive; things were just getting interesting. So he called up his relaxation techniques, only to find something incredibly odd happening, something that he hadn’t expected: his body was starting to relax without his consent or effort. The sensations all just started to melt into one hot thrum coursing over his skin, and it made him feel like he was getting fuzzy at the edges. He stopped fighting and let it wash over him.

He could still feel Bond’s teeth after the bite ended. Without letting go of the layered harnesses, Bond leaned down and reached beneath Q’s body, taking hold of the two ropes that passed between his legs. A moment too late, it occurred to Q what Bond was going to do, and then the ropes were already there, crossing the base of the plug to force it deeper, trapping it inside him.

In an abstract way, he could feel the added burn of the deeper stretch, but it broke apart in the larger hum of sensation, and Q didn’t even flinch.

Bond let go of the harnesses but never broke body-contact. He ran his hand down Q’s back, over his arms, down to the bottom of the second harness. He threaded the two ropes through the back of the harness and pulled, and _everything_ tightened — every inch of rope winding around his body, the plug, even the air in the room itself as it shifted over his skin.

Q felt a tug of concern that his mental body map was gone (or at least inaccessible at the moment), but let it pass in favour of enjoying this space where decision-making of any sort — to move, to act, to do — was completely impossible. It was freeing.

Bond twisted the two ropes in place and started weaving them into a complex knot that tightened the lattice harness even more, until Q could feel it digging into his skin with every breath and movement. The knot was, Q noted very distantly, much smaller now that some of the excess rope had been taken up. If he shifted his hips even a quarter inch, the ropes transmitted the motion to his entire body, inside and out.

It was completely overwhelming in the best way possible. He let out a deep breath, momentarily content. There was nothing left but to feel, in very nonspecific ways, what was happening.

Bond leaned against the side of the mattress, his knee against the side of Q’s leg. He wrapped both arms around Q and pulled him back until they were pressed close, chest to back. “Now I want you on your back,” he said into Q’s ear, his voice heavy with satisfaction, as though confident he’d get anything he wanted. Q rolled onto his back, arms and knots pressing into him, without complaint. He wondered how long it would be until his hands fell asleep.

He felt more rope then, wrapped around his ankles, pulling them together. Bond wove the doubled strands quickly up Q’s calves to his knees and tied it off, another layer of pressure for his mind to process. He could move his feet and bend his knees, but he couldn’t shift his legs up or down more than a quarter inch, and he couldn’t separate them at all.

Blindfolded, Q only knew that Bond was still there by a single, light touch on his foot. He could imagine Bond standing over him, watching him.

In that perfect moment where he had no decisions left available to him, Q felt himself sinking into a state that he very rarely was able to actually achieve. The hum of sensory overload, the inability to move, and the fact that he knew he could actually trust Bond left him sinking in a state of complete submissiveness. He felt like Bond could do anything right now, and it would be glorious. His mind floated on a rush of endorphins and other neurochemicals, and Q felt like he was flying. There was nothing left in the world but him, the ropes, and Bond.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a moment — sometimes sooner, sometimes later — when Bond could see his partner just begin to surrender. He lived for that, more than the release of orgasm, more than the rush of power that came when the surrender was complete. That first step shifted the scene from something theoretical to reality.

Q’s body was suited to being bound like this, made helpless not through posts or anchors but by itself. The ropes accentuated his thin frame. His forearms, trapped behind his back, forced his chest out. He was still struggling to accommodate the last binding, the column tie around his calves, and it brought out the definition of his thighs as he flexed and subtly tried to free himself. The movements were probably unconscious, his body’s reflexive attempt to let his legs fall open just a bit.

Bond stayed where he was for only a few minutes, but he could imagine the seconds racing by for Q. He’d experienced that disorientation himself. No matter how he’d tried to prepare for it, the combination of even limited sensory deprivation and immobility completely destroyed the ability to track passing time without immense concentration. MI6 training had fixed that for Bond, to some extent, but he doubted that Q had been subjected to that as part of his management orientation.

As Q relaxed, Bond moved his hand from Q’s foot, knowing that the light touch would have passed from his conscious awareness. The absence of that touch made Q subtly twitch. When Bond let his hand rest over Q’s thigh, fingertips just dipping to where his legs were forced together, Q didn’t tense or flinch. He reflexively pushed into the touch.

Bond curved his fingers, the movement natural and easy, and scratched his nails over Q’s skin hard enough to draw four lines that went from bloodless white to a warm pink. Once again, Q failed to protest in any way; he simply gave a slight moan. More curious, however, was the fact that the scratch caused Q’s cock, previously mostly uninterested in their activities, to twitch. Bond considered for a moment checking the effects of a few dozen small metal clamps, but decided they had all weekend. He needed to tease out more behind Q’s answers regarding pain.

Instead, he moved his hand up deliberately and scratched another set of marks, perfectly spaced from the first four, as though building a pattern up Q’s leg. His forefinger was barely an inch from Q’s balls, and he wondered what Q would anticipate would follow. This time, his legs pushed forward fractionally, pressing into Bond’s touch, as he sighed his pleasure. He didn’t seem to be moving away from, or encouraging anything closer to his groin — he was simply reacting.

So Bond indulged, gently shifting his weight onto the mattress slowly, as he scratched short, bright lines into Q’s skin. He raked all four fingers along Q’s other thigh, this time from the top down towards his inner thigh, as far as he could go. Inside one of the diamonds formed by the ropes on Q’s chest, Bond arced one nail sideways, following the curve of the nail like a knife’s edge. He used two fingers to trace a rib, from one rope to the next.

The more unpredictable and random the touches, the more Q seemed to appreciate it. He found that varying the pressure within normal limits didn’t have much effect; unless his touch was feather light or hard enough to almost draw blood, Q reacted the same. It was the unpredictability that seemed to help him stay grounded, and the longer he followed what he hoped was an unpredictable pattern on Q’s skin, the more fervently he would respond.

He found himself adding sharp bites to the patternless pattern without conscious decision, needing to indulge more senses than just touch. He licked over scratch marks and nipped at sensitive flesh, and when he finally growled, “Roll over,” Q obediently started twisting and fighting the ropes until he got up on his side, teetering for a moment on the soft mattress before he let himself fall.

Bond’s next bite was on his shoulderblade, where the position of his arms forced the bones against thin skin. He bit hard as he slid his hand down over Q’s arse to dig his nails in at the top of his thigh. Q didn’t seem to know which he wanted to react to, so he stretched his body between both points of contact. Now that he was on his front again, he couldn’t react in the same way as before, pushing into the touch. But still he didn’t tense; he let Bond continue his exploration of his body, happy to let him do as he pleased.

And Bond did. No force on earth, not even the bloody Queen herself, could’ve stopped him. He teased little sparks of pain from every inch of Q’s exposed skin, laying bites behind his knees and working a finger between his thighs to slice a nail down over soft, sensitive skin. He ended up straddling Q, one hand twisted up in the rope harness to pull his chest up off the bed — which had the secondary effect of seating the plug more firmly in his arse — and used his free hand to pull Q’s hair, baring his throat for a possessive, aggressive bite.

“Oh god, 007,” he groaned, muscles straining to hold himself in the position Bond had put him in. Bond raised a brow, wondering if that wasn’t perhaps the _strangest_ thing he’d ever been called in bed — and that after a long career of being an officer in the military, an expat in Japan, and a spy during the days when everyone was nostalgic for the Cold War. “Please,” Q continued breathlessly.

Bond released the bite and licked up to Q’s ear, everything inside him purring in contentment at hearing how Q’s voice had gone soft and broken. He let go of Q’s hair and pulled up harder on the harness so he could get at Q’s chest with his now-free hand.

This time, the bite to Q’s earlobe coincided with a sharp pinch, mostly fingernails, on Q’s left nipple, and Q bucked into the pinch. “Oh, fuck!” he shouted as he trembled.

Bond twisted his weight off Q and pulled him onto his side. He got his arm under Q’s head and pushed his chest back until their bodies were nestled together from hips to shoulders. Then he lifted his hand to take hold of the collar. His other hand dropped to Q’s cock while his teeth fell, almost naturally, over Q’s shoulder with another sharp bite.

The tremble turned into a full-body shudder as Q tried to curl around Bond’s hand. “Yes, god, please,” he murmured in quiet desperation.  His current position didn’t give him much leverage to thrust into Bond’s hand, though, try as he might.

Bond swept his hand up and over the head, then back down, too light to give any satisfaction. Q’s moan made him grin, and he released the bite only to move an inch over and bite again, timing it with a hard stroke down Q’s cock. The combination of sensations was apparently too much for Q to focus on — he alternated between responding to one or the other, head tipping into the bite or hips moving forward. He was whispering under his breath now, so low that Bond couldn’t immediately make out what he was saying. When he leaned in closer to hear, he discovered it was a running combination of words like “please”, “god”, “yes”, and “more.” The stoic Quartermaster seemed to be begging.

Bond gave about three seconds’ consideration to the wellbeing of his clothes before he moved up the bed a bit more, drawing his hands slowly away, to the sound of a beautiful whimper of protest. He carefully lifted Q, who was writhing and fighting the ropes, and pulled Q to sit sideways across his lap. With Bond’s left arm supporting Q’s shoulders, his right was free to explore Q’s body while taking the kiss that he’d been denying himself since he’d first bound Q.

Q kissed him back fiercely, letting Bond control it but still doing his best to to take every last sensation he could get from it. With what little maneuverability he had, he tried to crush himself into Bond’s grip, making as many points of contact between them as possible.

For a moment, Bond was tempted to lose himself in the kiss — even to undo the two ropes that were in his way so he could pull out the plug and take Q rough and fast. The memory of watching someone else fuck Q like that, bound and helpless, flashed through his mind, and he was hard pressed to remind himself that he had all weekend.

But he needed Q’s surrender more than he needed satiation. While keeping Q balanced, he got his hand up into Q’s hair and pulled enough to bare his throat. “Beg,” he ordered, and brushed his free hand over Q’s cock.

“Jesus fucking Christ, 007. Please!” Q had absolutely no room to maneuver; he sat in Bond’s arms, trembling.

Bond closed his fingers around Q’s cock and stroked twice. “Beg,” he ordered again, and this time, bit Q’s bared throat, just above the rope collar.

“God.” Q swallowed. “Will you please fuck me,” he ground out impatiently. The words were slightly broken — from the strain or the bite, Bond couldn’t immediately say.

“No.” Bond stroked again, watching Q’s breath hitch and catch every time his hand moved. Blindfolded, Q’s face was more expressive, as if he’d forgotten that Bond could see him clearly. Even with his eyes hidden, Bond could see the desperation in him.

Bond teased, fingers tight and then loose, varying his strokes from almost painfully hard to teasing and light, until Q was panting and begging, words falling without structure or logic. Only then, when he felt Q was one step closer to being _his_ , did he start working his hand in a hard, fast rhythm and say, “Now, Q. Come for me.”

The response was nearly immediate and beautiful. Q took another breath or two, leveling his head with Bond’s as if trying to meet his gaze, before his whole body tightened with his orgasm. He groaned, shoulders shaking, trying to fall forward into Bond as his body spasmed with the force of it. He didn’t say anything that Bond could actually understand, but merely trembled until he bent forward, panting, when he was done.

Bond held him close, pulling Q against his chest, and waited while Q’s breathing steadied. His own need hadn’t been blunted at all, but he ignored it as best he could with a silent mental litany of _soon, soon, soon_. For now, Q’s surrender would be enough, and he kissed Q’s hair, deciding to leave the blindfold on to help Q stay relaxed.

When they’d both calmed a bit, he eased Q off his lap and onto his side. “Stay,” he said gently. He got off the bed, tucked the duvet around Q’s body, and quickly unbound Q’s legs.

He left the room quickly to search the bathroom for spare towels. After washing his hands, he wetted the corner of one towel down and kept it folded in his hand so the wet cloth didn’t take on too much of a chill. He took a couple of deep breaths, ignoring his body’s demands, and went back into the bedroom.

Q moved when Bond entered the room, intentionally scuffing a foot on the carpet — he was _still_ wearing his shoes, shirt neatly tucked in and buttoned. Clearly he was in the wrong damned profession or something.

Gently as he could, Bond cleaned up the mess and rearranged Q to lie down with him, again curled up back to chest, with Bond’s arms around his body. Once Q got restless, Bond would untie his arms. Until then, it was too much fuss.

 

~~~

 

Awareness started to come back to Q in slow, subtle waves. If it weren’t for the bindings, Q would be floppy with exhaustion and lack of concentration, but the knots held him together, and the pressure of Bond’s body and arms helped ground him. He started sinking back into his body.  In a sort of reverse version of his meditation technique, he ran what he considered his personal systems check — he mentally scanned himself from toes to head, checking for injuries of any sort.  The ropes would leave temporary indentations, and he could feel the phantom tingles of scratching in several places, but in a sign of truly masterful work on Bond’s part Q didn’t feel a single patch of skin that burned with bruising.

Bond must have noticed his minute twitches of limbs and muscles as Q checked himself. He shifted away, petting down Q’s body as he eased his arm out from under Q’s head. He guided Q’s body to roll chest-down, head turned to the side, and began working at the bindings trapping his arms, starting with the one circling his chest and biceps.

Q stayed still and quiet as Bond eased the tension in the ropes, leaving it coiled loosely around him. Then Bond started unwrapping Q’s forearms, saying, “Don’t try to move too quickly.” The bindings hadn’t cut off Q’s circulation, but as the tension placed on his shoulders eased, he could feel a deep muscle burn spread down his arms and through his chest and back.

Q knew better than to give in to his body’s urgent desire to stretch — in his experience, it was the fastest way to a series of incredibly painful muscle spasms. So he carefully controlled his movements, letting each muscle relax fractionally until he let it settle into a relaxed position.

“You’re very good,” Q said with a slight smile — one he knew Bond couldn’t see from his position behind him.

“I’m not done,” Bond said with a low laugh. As he untied the last loops, he took hold of Q’s wrists and moved them to his sides. Then he pressed his fingers into Q’s back, feeling under his shoulderblades, between the ropes that remained wrapped around his torso. “Roll over, if you can.”

Q wasn’t quite up to witty comments or smirks, so he merely did as he was asked. The change in position, in combination with the release of the knots, made him temporarily lightheaded.  To combat it, he lay still when he was flat on his back, concentrating on the feeling of his tousled hair brushing where his mask met his skin, and waited for it to pass.

Bond laid back down beside him, feeling gently over Q’s chest, rubbing circles against the strained muscles below his collarbones. As he did, Q became aware that he was still completely dressed.

“How do you feel?” Bond asked.

“A little light-headed,” he said honestly. He wanted to ask why Bond was still dressed, but held back. He was painfully aware of the power imbalance between them at the moment, Q naked, lying in a tangle of rope, and Bond fully dressed above him. It was more psychological than physical, and therefore felt a little more dangerous. He let himself hover at the edges of darkness, perfectly still, waiting for Bond’s next move.

Bond continued the impromptu massage, moving to the other side of Q’s chest. “Breathe naturally. We’re in no rush. I want you to have your balance back, before I take you in the shower.”

Q chuckled a little. “That sounds like fun.” The massage was doing more to restore his circulation and muscle control than simply resting, and Q finally gave in to the need to stretch. He let his muscles ripple under Bond’s hands as he let himself feel just enough of the ache to keep him on the edge of comfortable.

With another soft laugh, Bond moved his hand up to hook the front of the rope collar. “Cat,” he accused, pulling gently as he kissed Q, thorough and slow and utterly in control of every last touch.

Q hummed as Bond pulled back. “Perhaps. I know you enjoy the flexibility. Would you like me to purr?”

This time, Bond’s laugh was rich and full of humour. “I could get a little bell,” he said with another tug on the collar, before he let go. He slid his hand down Q’s body and scratched lightly, tickling over Q’s abdomen.

Q hissed a little, though it was laced with amusement. “Bells aren’t really my style. You’ll have to be more creative than that if you want me to wear something you’ve purchased for simple decorative purposes.”

“All I want you wearing this weekend is my rope.” Bond got off the bed and asked, “Can you stand or do you need more time?”

Q shivered a little at the promise in his tone, then carefully sat up. The very first movement reminded Q that Bond hadn’t removed the plug in his arse; as soon as he recalled it, it seemed larger, more intrusive. It was an odd contrast — floating, unanchored by anything but Bond’s hand, through his very familiar space, and being anchored to his own body by the shifting of the unfamiliar toy inside him.

The head rush didn’t reappear when he was vertical, but he still took his time in swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Bond hadn’t removed the blindfold, but Q was well-versed in navigating his house blind (well, nearly blind) — sometimes it was just too much work to find and put on his glasses just to go to the bathroom at night. He stood, stretching a little more, and trailed his fingers along the bedpost to orient himself. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” Bond started unwinding the loose coils of rope left from the upper arm bindings. He didn’t let it fall — at least not loudly enough for Q to hear. Then he pressed his hand against Q’s, where it wrapped around the bedpost, and said, “Stay there.” Again, Bond moved away with intentionally loud steps, crossing to the armchair, or so Q guessed. He returned quickly and took Q’s arm, giving him a little tug to get him moving.

Walking through the house without glasses was very different from being led through a familiar room and down a familiar hallway, blindfolded and naked, except for the ropes that shifted around his body.

His mind started heading down the path of discomfort again. What the hell was he doing with Bond — an assassin and a coworker — like this? But he ruthlessly shoved it down, careful not to let it be reflected in his movements. He wondered how long it would take for him to forget such thoughts — if Bond was capable of completely winning his trust.

He didn’t hear the bathroom door open. He felt the floor change from the somewhat dusty runner to the small, old black and white bathroom tiles. The room was slightly cooler than the rest of the house, at least when the shower was off.

Bond stopped him and turned him so his back was to the vanity, with Bond standing in front of him. “Undress me. Shoes first.”

Q carefully knelt on the floor in front of Bond, shivering a little at the cold, hard touch of tile on his knees. As much fun as this sort of task could be, it could also be deeply unpleasant — depending on the attitude of the dom. Unlike most of his past encounters, Q was having a slightly difficult time getting a read on Bond. So far, he’d been even-keeled; totally in control, not allowing himself to slip emotionally either in pleasure or anger. It was somewhat frustrating.

Encouraged by Bond’s earlier reassurance that he could touch freely, Q let his hands land on Bond’s calves first. He held on for a moment as he shifted his position to be in better alignment with Bond’s body, then let his hands slide down to Bond’s shoes.

Q hadn’t paid much attention to what sort of shoes Bond was wearing; he’d assumed they’d be expensive simply because everything Bond owned was. His first exploratory touches revealed them to be made of expensive, shiny leather — the kind that would squeak if you dragged your hand across them just right.  They were laced up tightly, but Q didn’t have any problem undoing the knots.

He was pushing the ends of the laces to the sides to make room for loosening the shoes when his hands brushed against something decidedly _not_ leather  — something skittery and feather-light, with far too many legs. Q froze in panic for just long enough for said skittery thing to run across his hand —

At which point he bellowed, shaking his hand frantically, jerking away from Bond. He hit the cabinet, only to have Bond catch hold of him an instant too late, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other sliding in behind his head. “Q! What happened? What’s wrong?” Bond demanded, crouched down with him.

Q shuddered in horror, still clawing at his violated hand. “A fucking spider,” he ground out as he tried to suppress his rather embarrassing overreaction. “I hate spiders.”

After one moment, Bond laughed and gently petted Q’s hair. “Did you forget who I am? I can certainly kill spiders for you, Quartermaster. Stay here.”

Listening as Bond shuffled around in the bathroom, Q waited by the cabinet. He really wanted to find the situation as humourous as Bond clearly did, but his head ached from where it hit the cabinet, he still felt the ghost of legs running across his hand, and the combination of adrenaline and cold left him trembling slightly.

Then he heard the rustle of loo roll, followed by a definite _thump_ of a strong hand smacking the floor. “Target eliminated,” Bond said, deadpan.

“Fuck,” Q muttered, scratching his hand. Then, in a moment of perfect clarity, he realised how utterly ridiculous the entire situation was. He burst into a massive fit of laughter, completely and totally unable to stop himself shaking with overwhelming mirth instead of adrenaline. It was a welcome change, and it made him laugh even more.

“Thank you, 007,” he managed between giggles. “Job well done.”

A moment later, he felt Bond’s hands on his face, sliding back to tangle in his hair. He twisted hard and pulled Q away from the cabinet, saying in a low, growling voice, “You’ve heard the rumours, Q — how we get after a successful mission.”

Q was certain the renewed peal of laughter he broke into wasn’t the effect Bond had intended, but he couldn’t help himself. “Oh, yes,” he gasped out. “Go on then.”

Bond let out a choked sound that turned into a laugh. He kissed Q briefly — Q could feel his grin — and asked, “Do I need to sweep the house for intruders — Wait, don’t your bloody frogs secure the premises?”

Q desperately hoped Bond found laughter sexy, because there was no way he was getting ahold of himself any time soon. “They _are_ poisonous,” he managed to say, kissing Bond’s neck, trying to smother his laughter in Bond’s shoulder.

To his relief, Bond kept laughing as he repositioned himself to sit on the floor beside Q. Once again, Q found himself pulled into Bond’s lap, so Bond could hold him closer, still snickering. “Poisonous,” he said between breaths. “Because your day job of handling assassins isn’t exciting enough?”

“They’re colourful, and make lovely noises,” he chortled, wrapping his arms around Bond, taking deep breaths to try and control his laughter. “They must be slipping though, to allow eight legged beasts from hell loose in my bloody house.”

Bond petted him and kissed him again — still grinning, Q felt — before he said, “I promise, you’re entirely safe from any threats this weekend, including beasts from hell. And when you introduce me to the frogs later, I can have a talk with them about taking their duties seriously, if you’d like. For now, though, I’m still a bit overdressed.”

“Yes, you are,” Q chuckled, straightening enough to start unbuttoning Bond’s shirt.

“And I’m sure the frogs would love a lesson in proper handling of potential threats.”

“I’m impressed at your decision for such a stealthy home guardian. Most people would just get a dog.” Bond leaned close to kiss Q’s hair and added, in a whisper, “I told you to start with my shoes, didn’t I?”

“Temporary shock reaction, I’m afraid,” Q said with a grin. “I have to work my way back to it.”  Nonetheless, he reluctantly slid off Bond’s lap. Instead of kneeling, though, he sat cross-legged near Bond’s feet — a position that made him gasp and shiver as his body shifted around the plug. Once he caught his breath, he reached forward, letting his hands feel back along Bond’s legs until he reached his ankles. Then he gently, and slowly, in case Bond wanted to protest, pulled Bond’s foot into his lap to continue working on the laces.

Still with an edge of humour in his voice, Bond said, “The spider’s already paid for the transgression.”

He slid the shoe off and set it aside before reaching back for the sock. “Well, the frogs have obviously been remiss. There might be more.” The sock was, not surprisingly, silk. Q let his fingers scratch as he slid it down over Bond’s calf, ankle, and foot. Then he started on the other one.

As soon as both feet were bare, Bond pulled them back and stood, reaching down to brush his fingers through Q’s hair, careful not to disturb the straps of the blindfold. “Belt next. It’s easier than trying to fight to untuck the shirt.”

Q swept his legs to the side and rolled up to his knees, trying to keep from shifting the plug too much. He wasn’t entirely successful, and his breath caught as he stretched up. Then he reached to feel for Bond’s belt. He didn’t intentionally reach a few inches too low, but once his hands landed on Bond’s very hard cock, he let his hands linger, rubbing small, appreciative circles over the denim.

Bond’s hands went tight in Q’s hair again, and he allowed the touch for a few seconds before he tugged in reprimand. “Belt, Q,” he warned.

Q was still too close to the earlier humour to fall easily back into a submissive role. He moved his hands back up to the belt buckle and started tugging at the leather, but he leaned forward to bite at Bond’s hip through his jeans.

Abruptly, Bond pulled him up off his knees with a sharp tug on his hair and a hand clenched around the ropes circling his body. Instinctively he grabbed at Bond’s arms for balance as Bond shoved him back two steps against the bathroom wall.

“Get distracted, did you?” he demanded.

The force of it caught him by surprise, but Bond didn’t actually hurt him. In fact, it occurred to Q that Bond didn’t seem interested in allowing Q to suffer pain at all — there was no bruising from the ropes, he’d tried to keep Q from hitting the cabinet, and even now his movements were meant to control, not harm. Q wouldn’t move an inch that Bond didn’t want him to.

Q grinned.

“I was quickly and efficiently doing as you asked,” he replied truthfully.

Bond huffed, unimpressed. He turned Q around, pinning him to the wall with a hand on the back of his neck. With his free hand, he undid the knot low on Q’s back with sharp tugs. Every one jostled the plug in Q’s body, and Q arched and gasped at the sensation. “Fuck, 007,” he growled out. He didn’t struggle or resist, but he did let his head fall backwards onto Bond’s shoulder.

With another sharp exhale, one that sounded like a quiet laugh, Bond pulled Q’s right wrist back, tying it off to the rope between his legs, comfortably low. The wraps were neat and simple, tied off with a knot instead of a woven end. He did the same to Q’s left wrist, then turned him back around.

He pushed Q back again, so his shoulders were pressed to the wall. The strain on his shoulders was minimal, but even that slight tension pulled the ropes against the base of the plug. “Stay,” Bond told him, and a moment later, he heard the rustle of cloth.

Q chuckled under his breath but didn’t move except to let his head fall back, hitting the wall with a soft _thunk_. He waited silently, shivering slightly in the chill. None of the noises he heard from where Bond was moving gave him clues as to precisely what Bond was doing, but he was content to be still. It must have been the humour, he thought — he felt freer and more comfortable now than he had yet. Or had, with anyone else, in a long while.

The sounds changed after a time. Q heard the shower curtain rustle. Bond started the water, then took hold of Q’s arm again and pulled him away from the wall. He guided Q up against the vanity counter, making Q flinch at the cold, and started to untie his wrists.

“Hands on the counter,” he said when they were free.

Q reached forward, supremely grateful that his cleaner had only just been in. There was no grime in the sink as his fingers brushed the edges — he let his fingers dance along the cracks and imperfections in the porcelain as he waited. It was habit and an exercise all rolled into one, keeping his spatial awareness intact by building mental maps from this kind of input.

He was concentrating on feeling a divot by one of the overflow holes when Bond stepped up close — and now he was naked, making Q wish he wasn’t wearing the blindfold. Bond reached around Q’s body with both hands, sliding them down to the two ropes still caught between his legs. The touch was soft and ticklish and distracting, and Q’s body began to suggest that maybe he’d had enough time to recover from his earlier orgasm.

Bond probably knew it, too, judging by how he pulled the ropes up, letting them slide, without tension or burn, over Q’s cock and balls, the soft strands brushing against the insides of his thighs. Q bit back a moan, shivering at the sensation; the mental 3D map of the sink’s imperfections fled in the wake of rope on sensitive skin.

Bond began to unwind the strands, freeing Q from the lattice of ropes that circled him, until the last loops slithered free over his shoulders. He felt the ends brush the back of his leg as Bond coiled it back up, probably into the same efficient, neat type of bundle Q had seen earlier.

One of Bond’s hands touched Q’s back, just below the woven knot between his shoulderblades, but he didn’t immediately start to undo it. Instead, he let his finger trace down in a zigzag pattern, saying quietly, “My god, you take marks beautifully.”

 _Fuck_ , Q thought, moaning slightly under his breath. He could have easily pulled up his own imagination’s projection of what his skin would look like as the ropes came off, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to know what he looked like through Bond’s eyes. He focused on the feeling of Bond’s hand tracing the mark, on his breath, and on his reaction to Q’s skin.

Bond took his time as steam slowly began to fill the bathroom. He touched what must have been every mark on Q’s back before slipping his hand over Q’s ribs. Pressing close, he tucked his head over Q’s shoulder so he could look down and find the marks on his chest.

This time, instead of just touching, he scratched, just as he pushed his hips forward, cock sliding over Q’s arse. In any other mood Q might have muttered something about it being _about damn time_ , but he was too busy enjoying Bond’s skin being pressed to his. He let out a slow breath and shifted to allow Bond to see the marks on his front more clearly.

“I can’t wait to see your skin tomorrow morning, after you sleep in my ropes,” Bond said as he turned, brushing his lips over Q’s neck, just above the collar.

“Sleep?” Q asked, somewhat distracted by Bond’s mouth and hands. He’d never allowed himself to be tied up while completely unconscious before — the idea wasn’t necessarily alarming, but it was cause for thought.

In answer, Bond bit Q’s neck hard enough to send shocks down his spine. Then he stepped back and started working on the knot between his shoulderblades. “You _do_ sleep, don’t you?” he asked, sounding amused.

“When the occasion calls for it,” Q said with a smile, feeling his skin protest its separation from the ropes. As Bond loosened the two sets of wraps around his chest, Q breathed in deeply, shivering from the touch of the rope.

Then, unexpectedly, Bond reached up and unbuckled the blindfold. Q closed his eyes tightly as the blindfold came free. Light stung his eyes, even through the lids.

“Look,” Bond said roughly, reaching past Q, leaning even closer. The hand pressed to Q’s chest shifted up, tracing over where the ropes had been looped in neat rows around his body.

“Beautiful artwork, James,” Q said in a low, appreciative voice as his eyes traced the reddened lines. They were almost perfect, showing the twists of the rope. He wanted to memorise them, to savour the image later, when the mundane world dragged him down “It’s a privilege to be your canvas.”

Bond met his eyes in the foggy mirror before he bit again, this time below the collar. He pushed his hips forward again and exhaled sharply, eyes closing. His arms tightened around Q’s body.

He released Q with apparent reluctance and stepped back, resting a hand between Q’s shoulders. “Bend over, legs spread.”

Q had to step back from the counter to have room to do as he was asked, letting his back stretch into a long, straight line parallel to the floor as he let his head drop between his arms. He hoped the stretch in his skin pulled at the marks enough to make them more interesting to Bond’s gaze, then spread his legs. He knew what Bond was going to do, so he concentrated on deep, even breaths to relax his muscles.

Bond petted down his back, tracing the marks that Q knew would soon start to fade, as if fixing them in his memory. He steadied Q with a hand on his hip as he grasped the base of the plug and shifted it. As he started to pull it free, he curled his other hand, digging his nails in over Q’s hipbone. The sharp burn of nails on thin skin momentarily distracted Q, and then the plug was out, leaving an empty ache in its place.

“Get in the shower. Adjust the water however you like,” Bond told him as he let go of Q’s hip and stepped away. Q heard the snap of a condom as Bond uncovered the plug.

Q took a step towards the shower, but paused for a moment to let himself adjust, sparks flickering through the nerve endings in his arse. He shoved his hand into the water to test it — he was going to have to get it a little hotter — before moving again, stepping into the spray.  The handle, like the rest of the house, was old and fiddly; he turned it slowly, letting the heat gradually increase. The feeling of the water running through his hair and down his neck was different than usual, though, and it took a curious touch of his fingertips to remind him that Bond had left the rope collar on.

Bond pulled the curtain open enough to step into the tub. Q started to turn, only to have Bond take hold of his shoulders and push his chest against the side wall. Water splashed on his right shoulder as the air rushed from his lungs. The hand pinning him in place was holding more rope, trapping it against his skin.

As Bond reached back to close the shower curtain, he kicked a foot between Q’s, nudging his legs apart. Then he dropped his hands down Q’s arms to catch his wrists, drawing them down in front of Q’s body. He pulled Q back against his chest and bit hard on the back of his neck, and Q’s remaining breath left him in a rush of arousal. He wanted desperately to touch, but the sudden touch of soft rope — not synthetic, maybe bamboo — immediately had him freezing in anticipation.

Bond’s hands never faltered as he twisted the short length of white rope, no more than a yard long, into loops, weaving one loop through the other. Keeping Q’s hands in front of his body, Bond pulled the loops up to his wrists and then tugged on the free ends. Everything tightened, pinning Q’s wrists together. Bond finished with a knot that Q couldn’t reach without effort. It couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds from start to finish, and Bond hadn’t even needed to look at what he was doing. It was quick, expert work, and Q was incredibly appreciative of the practiced movements that held him in place without enough time to actually even think about what was happening. It was incredibly arousing.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Bond said as he released the bite. “Any objections?”

Q couldn’t have responded with more than a whimper even if he could think of a witty response. He leaned back against Bond in approval, pushed his arse back against Bond’s cock, and whispered, “007.”


	7. Chapter 7

Another time, Bond would have considered asking when Q had decided to call him by his service number, rather than his first or last name. Now, though, he just took hold of the rope ends and used them to pin Q’s hands to the wall in front of him, over his head. He’d put on a condom before he’d stepped into the shower, and when he reached down between Q’s legs, he was relieved to see his ‘plan’ of keeping Q’s body relaxed had worked perfectly. Earlier, he’d intended to fuck Q on the bed, but he’d been too tempted to see Q’s reaction to the plug. Now, the idea of keeping Q’s body open to him through much of the weekend was becoming more and more tempting.

Q wasn’t Bond’s type, all sharp bones and gangly limbs, but he surrendered beautifully, with just enough biting wit to keep Bond on his toes. He didn’t want an easy submissive — or, worse, one of the servile types who’d fold under a single push. He liked a challenge.

Remembering what Q had said in the restaurant, he didn’t take his time to ease into Q’s body. Instead, he pressed Q to the wall and thrust up inside, burying his cock as deep as the position would allow.

Q groaned, canting backwards into Bond’s body in an attempt to allow Bond to sink in even deeper. His fingernails scratched at the wall and his shoulder muscles flexed as he muttered, “Fuck, yes,” under his breath. After the initial shove backwards he held still, waiting with calm anticipation for Bond to do as he pleased.

Bond took a deep breath, wanting to last more than thirty seconds. He pushed Q against the wall, resting his other hand over Q’s wrists just for the pleasure of feeling the rope on Q’s skin. With no leverage, Q could barely twist, though he made no effort to try to free himself.

As he pulled almost all the way out — and god, Q was _perfectly_ tight and hot — Bond gave in to the temptation of biting Q’s neck again. He kept it soft at first, as he eased back in, closing his eyes to better concentrate on every last sensation. But as he adapted to the angle and started to thrust harder, faster, he let his teeth sink in deep on either side of Q’s spine.

Q shuddered but didn’t pull away. He said something under his breath, the words mingling with a gasp, but the only word Bond could pick out was ‘canvas’. Just the suggestion filled his mind with the image of Q’s body, pale and slim and gorgeous, scored with the twisted imprint of ropes. Fingertip-sized bruises on his hips and forearms. Bite marks. Scratches. The way his hazel eyes would go dark and wide and soft as he took that pain — endured it, because Bond wanted him to. Begged for more, like he was doing now.

Bond came abruptly, shouting into the bite as he thrust deep, driving Q up onto his toes. Soft skin and taut muscle gave under his fingertips as he clutched Q’s forearm. He released the bite slowly, as the shocks of pleasure faded into a tingling, spreading warmth, and he licked at blood-hot skin. For the first time in a very, very long time, he wanted to strip off the condom and push back inside Q with nothing between them.

When he finally let go and eased out, he was struggling to breathe evenly. Gently, he lowered Q’s bound wrists and forced himself to untie them. The fast knot was meant to be short-duration at most. He tossed the wet length of rope out onto the bathroom floor and pulled Q back against his body. Q was tense, trembling with need, but Bond just held him, taking almost as much pleasure from Q’s unmet desire as he had from Q’s body.

Q put his hands back on the tile, allowing a slight stretch that could have easily left Q pushing roughly against Bond in demand. Q didn’t make any such demands, however; his fingers traced the cracked tile in front of him as he let his head hang under the water. He was quiet and all but still, which Bond was fast learning was his response to situations where he felt he had to maintain perfect control of himself, which just gave Bond one more resolution to accomplish by the end of the long weekend: break that control completely.

He stripped off the condom and opened the curtain enough to bin it. Then he got back into the shower and pulled Q into his arms, knowing that he needed to relax enough to be able to sleep without coming again — not tonight. Bond had no idea how long he’d be able to keep Q on edge, but he wanted to find out.

“You have no idea how much I’m going to love doing that to you all weekend,” Bond told him, positioning Q under the hot water, tucked securely back against his chest.

“I don’t doubt it,” Q said, obviously trying to relax under the water and in Bond’s arms. His body was tense, and Bond could feel him trying to shake himself loose with minute twitches in his arms, legs, and shoulders.

“Q,” Bond said, not loudly but firmly. He kept Q’s body close against his and lifted one hand to run a finger over the now-wet ropes around Q’s neck. “Close your eyes.”

“All right,” Q replied, voice carefully controlled to calm expectancy.

Choosing efficiency over any attempt to get in Q’s head — for now — Bond found the soap and started cleaning them both, focusing mostly on Q. He used the excuse to touch him everywhere, feeling his tension. Q didn’t fight him; he kept his balance, allowing Bond to move him in slow steps. When Bond turned him around to get his back under the water, he combed Q’s wet hair back with his fingers and then kissed him again, slow and indulgent.

Q kissed him back, perfectly matching his pace and rhythm without melting into it. He brought his arms around to rest on Bond’s hips, fingernails scoring the skin very lightly. When Bond pulled back from the kiss, however, Q wrapped his arms around him and let his forehead rest on Bond’s shoulder. “Shall I wash you?” he asked.

“Look at me,” Bond said, touching Q’s face. When their eyes met, Bond debated for a quick few seconds. He needed to tease out why Q had started to withdraw back into himself again. For that, he needed Q dry and warm, preferably in bed. The collar tied around his throat wasn’t enough.

“No. Dry off. Leave the collar. And find me a towel,” he added, trying to remember how many towels had been hanging on the rack before. The fact that he couldn’t recall a simple visual detail like that was testament to just how compelling Q was, and the realisation made him shiver a bit.

Q stepped over the edge of the tub and out of the shower, holding onto the wall so he wouldn’t slip. He padded wetly across the room, and even over the noise of the water Bond could hear the sound of a towel being pulled off a bar. Bond made quick use of the shower for himself, not bothering to take his time, tempting as the still-hot water was. A few silent minutes later Q came back to the shower, sliding the curtain open just far enough to offer a folded, dry towel, his own still wrapped around his body.

Bond turned off the water, took the towel, and stepped out. He scrubbed the towel over his wet hair before he started to dry off, again going for quick efficiency. As soon as he was no longer dripping, he wrapped the towel around his waist and touched Q’s hair again. Even wet, it was messy and untamed, and he couldn’t help but smile as he tried to get the strands arranged neatly.

“Finish up in here. Get ready for bed. Is there anything else you need to do around the house? Turn the frogs loose to defend the ground floor, perhaps?”

Q chuckled. “If you hadn’t been here to save the day, I might have turned them loose on the spider. But I think we’re fine now. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or a drink before we go to bed?”

The tea would just keep them both awake, and possibly mean Bond would have to release Q in the middle of the night. The drink was damned tempting — most nights, Bond couldn’t sleep without alcohol, something he was careful to keep from mentioning during mandatory post-mission psych counseling. But on nights like this, when he could take someone and make that person _his_ for a night or a weekend, he never had any trouble sleeping.

“No, thank you.” He gave Q one more kiss and said, “When you’re finished in here, hang the towel and come back into the bedroom. Can you make it without your glasses?”

“Yes.”

Bond grinned, resisted the temptation to smack his arse, and picked up the ropes, blindfold, and lubricant. He gave Q one last look before he left the bathroom, closing the door quickly to keep in the heat.

In the bedroom, he draped the wet bamboo rope over the back of the chair to dry. He straightened up the other ropes and put everything back in his bag, taking out a few more lengths of soft white bamboo rope instead; it would be more comfortable for Q, and Bond wanted him well-rested. He tossed the ropes on the bed and then knelt down to check the bedframe, mentally visualising different positions for Q to sleep in.

~~~

Q took his time brushing his teeth again, enjoying the residual heat of the bathroom. He knew that Bond was going to tie him up again when he came out, which would be lovely, but he hadn’t had time yet to fully process the idea of actually sleeping in ropes. It seemed likely that between Bond’s almost magical handling of rope and his lack of desire to inflict any real pain on him, he wouldn’t be motivated to keep Q uncomfortable all night.

He spit and rinsed and checked himself in the mirror. The twisted hemp rope collar around his neck was rough and cold against his skin due to the water, but Q didn’t mind. He tugged at it now, burning the visual of it into his mind. It had only been a few hours, but already this had been one of his more pleasant experiences. He wanted to remember it all.

Q pulled the towel off his body and carelessly rubbed his hair with it. He wasn’t much for blow dryers or evening combing sessions — he’d learned long ago that no nightly ritual could keep the morning snarls at bay, so it wasn’t worth wasting the time. Besides, he told himself, Bond seemed to like it. Despite his protests about cut and style, he hadn’t seemed to be able to keep his hands out it for any length of time. Q thought he might actually enjoy the morning tangle — just as an excuse to run his fingers through it for longer than otherwise might seem acceptable.

He stepped away from the mirror, wishing he had his glasses so he could see whatever marks Bond had left on him. But there would be more time for that later. He had the feeling the teeth marks on his neck weren’t going away anytime soon. He also suspected that he’d have some bruises on his forearms to admire later as well, from where Bond had pinned him to the wall.

Smiling at the thought, he hung the towel to dry and left for the bedroom, where he found Bond had folded the blankets back. Several neat bundles of the same soft white rope were on the bed. Bond crossed to Q, pulled him into a quick kiss, and left the bedroom before Q could close the door. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door close. 

For a moment, Q didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to do. Bond hadn’t told him what he was meant to do when he got to the bedroom, so as inviting as the bed looked, he decided it was probably best to just stand and wait. He took a few steps towards the bed, and leaned on the post. He let his mind drift in the comfortable silence, eyes wandering from photograph to photograph of waterfalls framed on his wall.

Bond was back in under ten minutes, still beautifully naked. He closed the bedroom door and asked, “Which side of the bed do you prefer? I want you comfortable tonight.”

“I’m afraid I’m not used to sharing, so I tend to spread out like a starfish,” Q admitted looking down at the bed. “So you may choose whatever side you like, and I’ll be fine.”

Bond laughed and said, “It might be worth leaving you free just to see that. Go lie down. I’m going to move my gun to the bedside. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” Q said with amusement. Bond’s constant checking in with him about the seemingly minor details was polite enough to seem completely out of character. He was tempted to let him know he didn’t have to keep asking permission, but thought better of it. It definitely worked in his favour, all things considered. He took the few steps necessary to move to the left side of the bed and lay down on his stomach, waiting.

Bond went to the other side, where he unholstered the Walther and left it on the bedside table, grip facing the bed. He moved all the ropes up to the pillows and sat up, resting against the headboard. He took hold of Q’s right hand and ran his fingers over Q’s wrist, making him shiver at the touch of calluses on the soft, thin skin.

Then he started to wrap the rope around a few times, before he pinched the rope and unwound it, holding the length he’d marked off. He twisted the rope back on itself and formed a loop, which he tightened with a quick tug. It was casually done, almost like a magician’s trick. When he wound the rope back around Q’s wrist, the loop he’d made was at the back, almost perfectly centred.

This rope was short and very soft. Bond tied it snugly, twisting the ends underneath the wraps before fastening them in a short, neat knot. He slid his little finger under the wraps and tugged, testing the fit. The knot was next to the loop he’d made. When he pulled on the loop, it put tension on the whole rope, not just a few strands. Q had lain quietly, not moving while Bond tied the knots, but when he pulled the loop and increased the tension, Q spun his wrist a little and flexed his fingers, testing the feel of the rope bracelet.

Bond didn’t ask if he was comfortable. He just tied a second length around Q’s left wrist, after making a similar loop. When he misjudged the placement slightly, instead of twisting the rope around a few inches, he untied the loop and started over. He was a perfectionist, or close enough, laying each wrap beside the last, keeping the ropes from crossing or tangling except where he intended.

After he tied the second rope around Q’s left wrist — again, not tying them _to_ anything — he picked up two more bundles of rope and turned to sit lower on the bed. “Bend your legs up for me.”

Q wanted to raise an eyebrow at him, but couldn’t from this position. He did as he was asked, paying close attention to what Bond was doing. It felt like the same ties he’d put on Q’s wrists, loops and all. The ropes must have been longer; absently, Q counted the same number of wraps. There were seven, he realised, and wondered if there was a reason — Bond’s agent number, perhaps — or if it was just what worked for him. The ropes had been cut to length, after all.

When Bond finished, he pushed Q’s feet back down and said, “Sit up.” When Q did, Bond took a fistful of hair and pulled down, baring Q’s nape. He pressed his thumb hard into what was probably a spectacular bruise by now, and then started to unknot the wet collar. He gathered the wet rope as he worked, careful to keep it from falling and touching Q’s skin any more than necessary.

As soon as the wet rope was off, Bond tossed it aside and then rubbed his hands gently over Q’s throat, warming his skin. He took advantage of the hold to lean in and kiss Q again, slow and thorough. The kiss ended all too soon, though. When Bond pulled back, he said, “Show me how you usually sleep — before you reach the starfish stage.” Q could hear the amused smile in his voice.

Q chuckled. “I start out all akimbo — one arm under my pillow, the rest of my limbs all spread out.” He demonstrated by pulling the pillow under his head and wrapping his arm under it. Then he kicked out one knee to the side and let the foot on the opposite leg hang off the bed. This being his usual sleeping position, he instantly started to feel tired. “I suppose my body just insists on taking advantage of the space.” 

Bond laughed and picked up the last four ropes. He set them in a line down Q’s back before he pushed up to straddle Q’s hips. Q’s earlier thoughts about his hair were spot on; Bond’s hand went right to Q’s nape, fingers pushing the damp strands up and out of the way. He heard a sharp little inhale a moment before he felt Bond’s thumb sweep down over the bite mark, drawing a stinging hint of pain.

“You’ll carry that for days,” Bond said, a quiet intensity filling his voice.

“Excellent,” Q said, perhaps a bit too fervently. He reached up to touch the mark, fingertips brushing Bond’s.

With a low, wicked laugh, Bond leaned down and whispered, “You like that idea, don’t you?” He nipped at Q’s shoulder

“Obviously,” Q said in slightly rougher voice.

Bond stretched out a bit, so his calves were hugging Q’s thighs. His chest rested against Q’s shoulderblades, body contouring to the curve of Q’s back. The push against Q’s arse was a painful reminder that while Bond had come in the shower, Q hadn’t, and he’d definitely recovered and was ready for more.

“If I let you make a request, what would you ask for, Q?” He gave another bite, this one sharper. “I could tie you up from shoulders to toes, so you couldn’t even wriggle a finger, leaving rope marks everywhere. I could just pin you down and fuck you, hard and slow, until you could read my fingerprints in the bruises on your hips. I have whips, knives, a riding crop. Or I could take you out back, break the streetlights, fuck you in the darkness up against the wall of your house until your back was raw from the brick.”

Q had buried his face into the duvet very early in Bond’s descriptions, letting the imagery wash over him. But it was soon too much — especially suspecting that Bond wasn’t going to let him come for a second time tonight. He mentally calculated whether he would be successful at throwing Bond off so he could climb on top, but knew that it was a relatively hopeless prospect. Not only was Bond much stronger and better-trained; he was also in a position that was very difficult to break.

Instead, he reached up and threaded a hand through Bond’s hair, tugging. “Yes,” he growled, before a thread of self-preservation asserted itself. “Well, except for the whips and riding crop, if I’m allowed to choose.”

He felt Bond go still as though surprised. “And the rest of it?” he asked. Q could feel the hot-then-cool rush of air over his shoulder as Bond breathed; it sped up now, and Bond’s body had gone tense.

“You could even combine some of it, to make your entire list doable in one weekend,” Q answered wickedly. “Fuck me in the darkness behind my house, back shredded by brick and collarbone marked with your knife.” He shivered deliciously at the idea, closing his eyes for a moment.

Abruptly, Bond wrenched free of Q’s grip on his hair. Q’s eyes opened in a panic — he couldn’t have said anything wrong, could he? — but he saw Bond’s fingers were digging into the sheets so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

“Or, if you don’t want to flash a blade in a potentially public place, you could do your best to bruise instead,” he added. “We wouldn’t be able to see the marks in the dark at first, but we could make a game of counting them later.”

Bond’s inhale was deep; his exhale, shaky. He let go of the sheets — now pulled away from the top corner of the mattress, Q noted — and fisted his hand in Q’s hair with casual, irresistible strength. He tugged up, forcing Q to scramble to get his hands flat and help support his weight, until his back was arched, head back, throat bared.

Bond’s free hand traced over Q’s collarbone, first his fingertips, and then the sharp, curved edge of one fingernail, with just enough pressure to sting.

“Oh, no,” he said, his voice rough. “You made your opinion very clear, Quartermaster. You won’t get out of it that easily. Do you _really_ think I’m concerned with being caught out with a knife?”

As Bond released him, easing him back down to the mattress, he closed his eyes again to lose himself in his imagination. He normally wouldn’t give someone such free rein — it wasn’t that he was afraid of being scarred, but he didn’t want to be broken. But Bond had shown absolutely no interest in humiliating him or hurting him for the sake of proving power or strength. He didn’t fall back on the ridiculous script of “dominant” and “submissive” — he was taking his submission on Q’s terms. He certainly pushed the limits of what Q was comfortable with — begging didn’t come naturally to him, for instance — but he wasn’t acting as if he were checking items off some internet-based BDSM list. The entire evening had been an exercise in give and take, and it had left Q exhilarated and tense, not humiliated and hating himself for enjoying something so few people understood.

“Well, I’m sure you can think of other games to play with bruising, then — perhaps for the day after the alley. My body _is_ your canvas this weekend,” he said.

So slowly that Q could feel the tremors in Bond’s arms as he leaned down, Bond ducked his head and licked over the bite marks scored into Q’s flesh. “You’ve made only one mistake, Q,” he warned with a wicked laugh.

“Just one?” His instinctive response was to say that giving Bond so much power could easily be considered his mistake, but that would certainly kill the mood. And, wisely or not, he trusted Bond. He was certain he wasn’t making a mistake.

“You’re not going to come until I fuck you outside, tomorrow.”

Q sighed and let his head fall face-first into the duvet again. It was nothing new for any of the dominants he’d slept with, so he considered it poor form that he hadn’t seen it coming — especially after the shower. He groaned, long and loud, thinking he should probably have mentioned that he _hated_ orgasm delay.

“Bastard,” he muttered.

“You’ve known me for how long, and you’re only now figuring that out?” Bond asked with a sharp laugh. He got up off Q’s body to stand beside the bed. “Get comfortable. I don’t want you to have the excuse of a poor night’s sleep tomorrow morning.”

“You’re the one tying the ropes, James,” Q said even as he shifted into something close to his normal sleep position. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to stay that way, so he took the opportunity to spread his limbs and stretch as much as possible before Bond started repositioning him. “If I get a poor night’s sleep, it probably won’t be my fault.”

~~~

Just for that, Bond was tempted to tie Q as restrictively as was safe, so he could barely twitch a finger, but that would do nothing to help with the plans that had formed, crystal clear, under Q’s own prompting. This was new for him, letting his sub actually dictate — however indirectly — what they’d be doing, but Bond couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He consoled himself with the fact that it was based on his own suggestion.

Of course, it was a suggestion he’d made thinking it was in the ‘goes too far’ column, when Q didn’t react to the ‘whips, knives, and riding crop’ Bond had mentioned. Now, Bond knew that was because he only objected to two-thirds and not all three.

He never would have picked Q for the type to like knives. At least, not in bed.

So instead, Bond tied Q comfortably, with two ropes running from the top left bedpost, one to each wrist, with enough slack to let him pull his arms down to his chest (but deliberately no further). He did the same with his ankles, tying two ropes to the bottom left bedpost, and then tying one ankle to each, with enough slack to allow him to bend his knees. He wouldn’t be able to move up high enough to get his hands down to his own cock, but otherwise, he was generally free to move. There was nothing stopping him from untying himself at all, but that was the whole point: The ropes were a reminder of Q’s _willful_ obedience, and not something that was forced or taken.

When Q was bound, Bond pulled the blanket up to Q’s shoulders and did something he rarely did: He left Q tied up in the bedroom, though he kept the doors open and listening for any hint of movement. He wouldn’t have left Q at all, if he couldn’t have freed himself, and he left just long enough to retrieve the plug, which Q had set beside the bathroom sink. There were extra condoms left over from earlier; Bond opened one and rolled it over the plug, smoothing it down to work the air out. He tied it off outside the base and then carried it back to the bedroom.

“If I fall off the bed, I’m in trouble,” Q muttered from where he was still lying face-down on the bed. “I’m not used to being so close to the edge, so it’s a distinct possibility.”

Bond huffed, amused that Q still was a snarky bastard, even knowing what Bond was going to do with him. Of course, maybe that was the point. Either pre-emptive revenge, or Q was subtly trying to incite Bond to even more... More what? Intensity? Violence? The thought gave Bond a moment’s pause as he wondered if his Quartermaster had a severe danger kink.

Bond couldn’t decide if that was disturbing or enticing. Both, probably.

He pushed aside his thoughts and found the lubricant he’d brought in earlier. He carried it around to Q’s side of the bed and stripped the blanket down. “Spread your legs. Get up on your knees.”

Q swore under his breath, pulling against the ropes to shuffle into place. There wasn’t enough slack for him to move gracefully, so it took him a few moments to to do as Bond asked. After the initial complaint, he didn’t say anything, forced by the restraints to keep his face and forearms pressed to the mattress.

He wasn’t happy, but he hadn’t safeworded — he hadn’t said no at all. Because of that, and because Bond, at least, knew what was going to happen, he took a tight, firm grip of Q’s hips, dug his fingers into his flesh, and opened him a bit more, enough that he could lick a soft, slow stripe from behind his balls to the base of his spine.

“Fuck,” Q said, loud enough that it wasn’t completely muffled by the mattress. “God that’s good.”

Encouraged, Bond did it again, more slowly, and pressed his tongue over Q’s entrance, lingering for a moment, before he drew away. Q had wrapped his hands around the ropes tied to the post, pulling on them in an effort to shove his hips backward more and elongate his spine. It didn’t work, of course, and Q’s fingers went dark from the strain. 

The snark, Bond noted, had stopped.

So Bond licked and teased, concentrating on memorising the pattern of Q’s breaths and the shifting of his muscles as he tried to strain against the rope. He was tempted — very, very tempted, in fact — to keep licking until Q tore himself free, fingers ripping at tight, military-neat knots, only to realise there was nothing he could do, short of safewording, to change the encounter at all. Hell, it might be fun to let him try.

But for now, at least, Bond had an agenda for the night, and when Q was nearly boneless, hips trapped in his bruising grasp, he stopped. When he let go, Q crumbled in on himself, body flattening sinuously as he sank down on his knees, chest pressed to the mattress.

“Good kitty,” Bond couldn’t resist teasing as he picked up the plug and lubricant.

“Oh god, you’re stopping?” Q asked desperately with a little pull at the ropes.

“Good to know you like that, as well,” Bond said a bit smugly. He really shouldn’t have done that at all, now that he considered it. He _wouldn’t_ have, except they were both MI6 and thus both stalked by the sadists down in Medical at every opportunity. Well, _he_ was; he didn’t know if Q, as a department head, was immune to their vampirism.

The more he thought about it, though, the more irresponsible he felt — which was most definitely not a comfortable state of mind for him.

“Fucking hell, you’re just being cruel now,” Q groaned, and he shifted as if to get ready to collapse back onto the bed.

“If I haven’t been so far, then I apologise for not doing my job earlier this evening,” Bond said wryly, pouring lubricant onto his hand. He probably didn’t need to do much at all to prepare Q’s body, but he wanted to be gentle with this, at least.

So he pushed his finger inside, moving slow, and then pulled out and added a second, feeling almost no resistance. He was warm and inviting, and as Bond worked his fingers into Q, he started thinking that he should just fuck Q now. Or push inside and then bring Q off, just to feel his orgasm while buried deep in him.

Q had stopped moving entirely now, his body now as stiff and still as possible. He wasn’t trying to make it more difficult for Bond or himself; it was obviously an attempt to get a handle on his reactions. Bond could hear Q muttering something; at first he thought it might be more curses, but then he caught snatches of numbers — some technique, Bond was certain, to help him focus or distract him from his body.

He knew how to disrupt it. Hard thrusts, varied rhythm, a light brush or two over his prostate, and Q might well fall apart. But for now, he let it pass, and instead withdrew his fingers to coat the plug with lubricant. As soon as Bond started to push the plug into his body, Q’s muttering grew louder. He didn’t fight the intrusion, not even at the widest point, where even his relaxed body strained involuntarily.

When it was seated in place, Bond set his free hand on Q’s back and gently encouraged him to lie back down. “Get comfortable, Q,” he said quietly.

Q took a deep breath, stopping his recitation, and let himself fall back onto the bed. He was able to tuck one hand under the pillow by his head, and Bond suspected he would have curled around himself if he were able to. Because he couldn’t, he let his limbs fall wherever they landed in an almost-sprawl. He didn’t try to glare at James or say anything else — he kept his eyes and mouth both tightly closed.

Bond didn’t let himself hesitate. He got off the bed and pulled the duvet up again, telling himself that this would all be worth it — that he hadn’t done irreparable damage to his relationship with Q, either as professionals or as friends. Still, as he went to wash up and get himself ready for a brief nap, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps this was a bad idea after all. It was one thing to have a casual shag or even a scene with a co-worker, but not _this_ co-worker, who literally held Bond’s life in his electronic hands.


	8. Chapter 8

Q felt Bond wrap himself around him with some surprise. He would never, ever have guessed Bond to be the cuddling type, and yet here they were — for the second time. Of course, Bond probably developed the skill as a mechanism for coping with pissed off subs who didn’t like being teased, he thought, irritated.

With a deep breath, Q tried to relax. It wasn’t easy — he was still ridiculously, incredibly turned on. He thought very briefly about asking for some ice, but decided against it. Not only would that sting like a son of a bitch, it would give Bond even more smug satisfaction for what he’d managed to do to Q. So instead Q directed his mind to decidedly unsexy thoughts. Windows operating systems out of the box. People who didn’t leave funny remarks in comment codes. The way London smelled along the river in the summer at low tide.

It took an unpleasantly long time for Q to wrestle his body back under control. He could feel it happening in degrees — not that he was actually consciously responsible for it. First his stomach muscles relaxed, then his back, then his fingers and toes.

Bond pulled him closer, fitting against him despite the ropes holding Q’s body in place.

Soon after, Q felt his eyes grew heavy, and he found himself slipping into sleep. The last thing he saw was the bedside clock ticking closer to midnight.

Then, abruptly, he felt someone pulling him upright, tugging at his wrists, tightening ropes around them. It was dark and familiar — his bedroom — but in the sudden disorientation, he had no idea who it was until he heard, “Come with me,” growled out in a familiar, deep voice.

Bond’s hand found Q’s hair, tugging him away from the bed in a daze. His wrists were tied together loosely in front of his body, slack between them, and there were ropes around his ankles, not bound to anything. He recalled being bound to the bed, falling asleep with Bond cuddled against his back. When had _this_ happened?

He stumbled after Bond, taking long steps that reminded him that Bond had pushed that damned plug into him before letting him sleep — _without_ the satisfaction of an orgasm first. The stimulation was almost too much, and he felt his body clench.

“What the hell, James?” he grumbled, then tried to slow down when he realized they were approaching the stairs. He trusted Bond, but it was nearly instinctual.

Bond stopped and shoved him against the wall. It was dark, too dark for Q to see his expression. Q felt denim and cotton and bare arms. Bond was back in his jeans, but now he was wearing a T-shirt. Why? Why was he dressed? The thought jarred Q awake even more.

“If I recall,” Bond growled, crowding close to speak softly in Q’s ear, “you wanted me to fuck you. Am I wrong?”

Q’s mind tried to latch onto an answer, torn between anger and sudden interest and fatigue. Then he felt cold metal touch his bare shoulder, a sharp scrape that didn’t cut but threatened to, and he realised Bond had a knife.

“Say no and this stops. Safeword and this stops. Otherwise, you’re mine,” Bond said softly over Q’s sharp inhale.

Q fought the immediate urge to push into the knife, just to prove that he has been completely honest about how much he wanted this from Bond. His pulse skyrocketed as he thought about all the delightful marks Bond was about to make, about how much under Bond’s control he was about to be.

“Is it tomorrow already?” He leaned forward into Bond — and into the knife — to kiss him.

Bond let the kiss happen, taking control of it with a hand in Q’s hair. His grip on the knife was relaxed; it just slid over Q’s skin, riding out his movements until the tip touched his neck, making him freeze instinctively. Bond nipped at Q’s lips and rocked his hips forward, pressing rough denim against Q’s cock, making him gasp all over again.

“It’s three in the morning,” Bond said tracing the point of the knife up the side of Q’s neck, to the soft, thin skin behind his ear. “If you’re very quiet, no one will ever know.” He licked into Q’s mouth once before asking, “How quiet can you be?”

“I won’t even breathe loudly if it means you’ll take me out back,” Q said in his lowest voice, pushing his hips forward in reciprocation.

With a satisfied sounding growl, Bond took the knife away, grabbed Q by the arm, and went for the stairs. Though he didn’t seem at first to be concerned, he slowed on the stairs and stayed one step ahead of Q all the way to the bottom, and Q knew that if he’d tripped, Bond would have caught him. It made him feel a bit better about going out back. He wasn’t a social creature, but he knew his neighbours — the idiot teenage children next door and their overworked parents, the retiree couple across the alley, the two professionals who worked eight-to-five on the other side.

At the foot of the stairs, Bond turned Q right for the back door as if he’d scouted. Q couldn’t help but shiver as they passed through the kitchen and laundry room and into the backyard —

Where it really was pitch black for three houses in one direction and four in the other. Two of the alley lights were out as well. Even the motion-sensitive security light that went on every time anyone took out their bins was out, and Q couldn’t help but grin. Bond had scouted _and_ done as promised, all while he was bound in his uncomfortable, frustrated doze — while he’d left Q to think that he was going to have to wait _a full day_ for any sort of satisfaction.

He made it down the three concrete back steps and into his neglected garden. He thought of all the crawling things that lived out here and shivered, but Bond was insistently heading around the stairs to the back wall on the side away from the rain gutter that leaked.

Bond stopped. Shoved Q’s back against the wall. Caught his bound hands and pulled up to pin them above his head.

“I suggest you not move,” he whispered, and Q felt the knife touch the hollow of his throat.

Q chuckled, and the act causing the slightest shift in throat muscles, increasing the pressure of the knife. It was delicious. But he needed to stay quiet, so he didn’t say anything. He watched Bond as best he could in the darkness, eyes challenging with courage he didn’t entirely feel. It really was _dark_ out here, and while just thinking about Bond marking his skin made his knees go weak, he didn’t want to _hurt_.

Bond leaned his left hand against the wall over Q’s head almost casually, his hand on the rope between Q’s wrists. His body was just close enough for Q to feel the brush of denim against his knees, but Bond was leaning back to make room for the knife. He trailed the blade down, scoring a thin line down Q’s chest, just hard enough to raise a sharp bloodless welt. From the pressure and sting, Q knew that the raised line would be sharp and pink against his pale skin; if his hands were free, he’d be able to feel it with his fingertips. He hummed with satisfaction, leaning back against the wall as the lingering fear receded.

When the knife reached Q’s sternum, Bond twisted his hand to pull the blade away. He pressed a finger to the line he’d just drawn and scraped down, letting his nail catch.

“I can’t wait to see this in sunlight,” Bond said softly. “I’m going to mark you everywhere. No matter which way you turn, I’ll see where my knife’s been.”

Q closed his eyes, picturing it, feeling a stab of arousal rush through him. Would Bond stick with simple lines, like the one he just drew over Q’s neck? Would he attempt a design? Would he take his time, and go for a pattern as complicated as one of his knots? Q let his head fall forward close to Bond’s ear and bit lightly. He wanted to tell Bond that he could leave a more permanent mark, but he couldn’t. He’d promised to be silent, so the neighbours wouldn’t know. And Bond had been so strict with his rules earlier, Q didn’t want to take the chance that disobedience might make Bond decide to stop.

No matter. Q would find a way to make it clear, when the time came.

 

~~~

 

There were far too many ways to kill with a knife. Bond knew where to strike for a painless, instant, silent death and how to cut to completely shatter a victim’s resolve. More to the point, he knew Q was fully aware of his skill with a blade; he’d been on the other end of Bond’s comms often enough, listening.

Few people liked knives enough to put one in the hands of someone who was essentially a stranger — a first-time partner. Even fewer were willing to take that risk with someone like Bond. Q had wanted it, though, and while Bond couldn’t resist the temptation, he could turn this into something more than self-indulgence. He could use the knife to find out specifically what Q needed — pain, fear, or both.

So he started his almost-cuts under Q’s jaw, point of the blade pressing right against his pulse, hard enough that Bond could feel the shiver of his heartbeat. He drew the point across in what could be a killing stroke that was actually inefficient, messy, and loud, with significantly more pressure. Q tipped his head away, heart beating faster, breath caught in his chest. He held completely still, letting Bond move the knife as he pleased.

The second stroke mirrored the first, lower down, following the line of a tight necklace — or the rope collar Q had been wearing earlier. Again, Q took the scraping motion in silence, not breathing until Bond lifted the point away from his skin. Even though Bond’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he couldn’t see Q’s expression.

He moved the knife to the soft, exposed underside of Q’s left arm. He traced along the blood vessels, a general path he knew very well. He let the point dig in a bit more, now that he was somewhere Q could cover up with ease. He’d just have to wear long sleeves instead of short.

Q turned his head up to watch, and this time he didn’t hold his breath at all. His breathing picked up, and Bond could feel the muscles of his arms flex as Q clenched his hands into fists. Bond wasn’t absolutely certain, because Q was obviously trying his best to be completely silent, but he would have bet that Q actually hummed in satisfaction.

Pain _and_ danger, Bond suspected, though not too much of either. He felt something deep inside himself growl in satisfaction, and he let go a bit more of his self-control. He pulled Q’s wrists away from the wall enough to drag the point of the knife halfway around, scoring more sharply on the thicker, tougher skin at the back of his wrist.

Q kept watching, even going so far as to try and push his arm harder into the blade. He relaxed his hands only to tighten them again; the stretching caused his skin to move over the knife. Bond pulled the tip away, mind racing as he considered how Q had moved.

Experimentally, he set the point against the back of Q’s forearm and dug in, not quite hard enough to pierce skin, but close. He leaned in with a deliberate thrust of his hips and demanded softly, “Tell me what you want.”

“That would be cheating,” Q softly challenged. “I thought you liked to figure it out for yourself.”

Had Q said no cuts? No scars? Bond couldn’t think rationally enough to remember, which was why he didn’t do _this_ on missions unless he had no choice. Everything in him was demanding that he mark Q — really _mark_ him — so he trusted his instincts. He twisted the knife and pushed that last little bit. The blade was sharp; the point pierced skin with ease.

“Fuck,” Q whispered tightly. As soon as Bond lifted the knife away, Q pushed his hips forward again and turned his head back, eyes wide, to demand a hard kiss.

No safeword. No refusal or accusation that Bond had overstepped their negotiation.

Bond dropped his other hand from the rope to twist his fingers in Q’s hair, pushing his head back against the wall to control the kiss. He clenched his fist around the knife and leaned his knuckles against the wall, suddenly thinking he wanted to be inside Q right the fuck now. But he had a promise to keep — a goal he wouldn’t surrender.

Q would wear these marks not for days but for weeks.

 

~~~

 

Any reservation he’d had about being submissive to a coworker and any hesitation he’d had about putting himself in the hands of an assassin vanished under the edge of Bond’s knife.

Bond knew _exactly_ how to work his blade — how much pressure to use without actually causing permanent damage. It was incredibly refreshing, given how many doms Q had known who got overly excited and cut too deep or not deep enough. He thought about a row of painful, permanent lines cut into his flesh and wondered if he’d find the chance to ask Bond to cut over them, to obscure them and make them _his_ instead.

Q started to get dizzy with arousal as his body became a work of art. Bond’s knife raised lines and drew faint specks of blood. The lines stung without crossing into actual pain, and the last rational part of Q’s mind was, quite frankly, incredibly impressed with Bond’s ability to read him. So many people failed to understand that for him it wasn’t about pain. Q actually didn’t care much for pain. He could put up with it for the sake of his partners, but it wasn’t arousing to him at all.

He wanted marks. Reminders of what it was to be under Bond’s control. Places he could look at, feel, and press to be transported back to a space where he wasn’t in control. Where he wasn’t the one making life and death decisions.

And god he couldn’t wait until the ropes rubbed over the marks, forcing him to feel and remember _this_ all weekend. That was going to be beautiful.

Bond made good on his promise to mark Q’s body everywhere, holding Q pinned to the wall as he worked the knife from wrists to shoulders to hips to feet. One cut on his left leg, a tiny line parallel to his shin, oozed a drop of blood into the soft white rope tied around his ankle.

Finally Bond turned Q around and pushed his legs apart, careful to hold him away from the wall. Bond reached down between Q’s legs, brushing callused fingers over his balls just to hear him hiss in surprise. Then Bond moved his hand back and down, finding a line of pinprick cuts he’d laid along the inside of Q’s right thigh. He scraped his nail across them, opening the wounds again, and Q gasped with pleasure and stilled, closing his eyes to focus on the feel of Bond’s hand. He pictured the marks there, the thought distracting him from the slightly painful sting caused by the salt on Bond’s hand. He wondered if the wounds being reopened would ensure that the marks would last longer.

As Bond’s fingers caught the base of the plug, rocking it in Q’s body, Bond asked quietly, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“You know I do,” Q growled as the question roused him from his blissful daze. If Bond didn’t actually let him come this time, he wasn’t sure that the expert blade work would be enough to make up for it.

Bond laughed, and thank god, instead of making Q ask for it — or beg for it — he just told Q to push as he worked the plug free. Once it was out, Q instinctively backed up from the wall, wanting Bond inside him hours ago.

Bond’s response was a sharp, stunningly loud slap on the arse that startled him.

“Telling me to hold still works just as well,” Q hissed in annoyance. But he held still, listening as Bond unfastened his jeans, followed by the rip of a condom packet. Q wondered if Bond had brought lube out — if not, this would be very uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure he’d want to wait long enough for Bond to go fetch it. But no, Bond must have; he’d thought of everything else with the type of thoroughness that bordered on obsessive-compulsive.

“Turn around.”

As soon as he did, Bond took his wrists and tugged on the rope between them as if checking the knots. Then he ducked his head to get Q’s arms around his neck, pulled Q close to his body, and lifted, pinning Q back against the wall of the house.

Q’s bound wrists prevented him from be able to do much more than claw at Bond’s neck and tangle his fingers in his hair. He arched his lower back away from the wall and stretched his legs as best he could before he wrapped them around Bond’s waist, trying to hang on, feeling the scrape of denim against his scratched thighs.

“I have you,” Bond said, his voice reassuring and surprisingly gentle. He shifted Q enough to the side to support his weight with one arm under his lower back. With more shifts of his hips and his free hand, he managed to get his cock lined up with Q’s entrance, and thankfully, he _had_ remembered lubricant.

As soon as Bond pushed, he entered with almost no resistance, helped by Q’s own body weight. The slight burn was lost under the sensation of a new position, the rough brick against his shoulders, and Bond’s strength supporting him so effortlessly. Q couldn’t hold back his soft moan, and Bond swore quietly and looked down, breathing deeply.

Despite the darkness, Q struggled to see Bond’s expression. For once, he wanted to know that his partner was enjoying this just as much as he was. But while Q couldn’t see, he could feel the tension in Bond’s body. Finally, it seemed Bond’s self-control had broken under the pleasure Q offered. This man who had fucked countless people, who’d been so precise and controlled in taking Q apart tonight, was finally giving in to his own primal desires.

It was _incredibly_ fucking hot. Q wanted more — needed more. He didn’t care about the knife or the wall or his neighbours anymore. Breathlessly, he gave an experimental roll of his hips, hoping to shatter that self-control until it was completely gone.

Bond’s inhale was sharp and stuttered. He lifted his head to meet Q’s eyes in the darkness, and his fingers tightened against Q’s back. He growled under his breath and moved, finding his balance and shifting position until Q was leaning back as far as the rope around his wrists would allow. The slack had to be digging into the back of Bond’s neck, but he didn’t react to it at all.

Then the angle changed enough to turn Q’s exhale into a moan that he barely remembered to suppress. He had one panicked moment to remember the neighbours before Bond pulled out and then thrust back in, hard enough to make Q see sparks.

Biting his lip to keep from crying out, Q met Bond’s gaze. If he couldn’t communicate how much he was enjoying this with vocal cues, he could find other ways to make sure Bond understood. He tightened his fingers in Bond’s hair and pressed his heels against Bond’s body, trying to encourage him to thrust harder and faster. The shift in movement caused the wounds on his inner thighs to rub against Bond’s skin and clothing, and he couldn’t help letting his head tip back in delight.

Perhaps Bond was encouraged by Q’s body language or by his own pleasure. Either way, his next push gradually grew stronger, and soon he was fucking Q back against the wall with hard, powerful thrusts, holding nothing back. Q’s shoulders scraped painfully against the wall, and the brick tore strands of hair free from the back of his head. Bond’s fingers dug into his hips hard enough to bruise.

Between the abrasions from the wall and Bond fucking him, there weren’t many rational thoughts left in Q’s head. He did, however, have time to regret how he wasn’t going to last nearly as long as he wanted to. Whether it was not being allowed to come earlier, or the perfection of Bond’s work with the knife, Q was far, far too turned on to hold off his orgasm for long. He just hoped Bond was feeling the same way.

 

~~~

 

Specific sexual encounters rarely stood out in Bond’s memory as significant, but he knew that this — _this_ — would definitely be one night he would never forget. He’d never let his self-control slip like this, not even as an experimenting teenager. Somehow, this wasn’t too much for Q; if anything, he wanted more. The tight pull on his hair and the press of Q’s heels against his back urged Bond to fuck him harder and faster until he could think only of Q’s body. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to free up a hand to help Q until he felt the hot press of his own orgasm twist through him, too powerful to hold back.

He drove in and pulled Q away from the wall so he could bite, muffling his shout into Q’s shoulder, teeth digging in over the raised lines left by his knife, hard enough that he tasted a drop of blood.

Apparently the friction from where they were pressed together and the sharp scrape of teeth on skin was enough for Q, because every muscle in his body tightened with his own orgasm. His head fell back against the brick, mouth open in a silent scream, as he followed Bond into euphoric release.

Trembling with the aftermath, Bond held Q against him, feeling a dangerous new warmth fill him at the thought that he’d so completely let go. He didn’t do that — not ever, not with anyone, because _no one_ could be trusted. He shivered, heart pounding. At that moment, when all he wanted to do was wrap their bodies together in a delicious tangle, an angry kitten probably could’ve taken them both out, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He lifted Q enough to slide out and regretted the loss of his body’s warmth — or just the closeness of being inside him. As if to compensate, Bond turned so his back was to the house and leaned back, encouraging Q  to stay pressed against his chest, rather than trying to drop down to his feet. He was light enough that Bond could hold him like this forever. Some traitorous part of him wanted just that.

Q clung tightly to Bond, breathing heavily, still shaking with the aftermath. Bond could feel his heart beating frantically where their chests were pressed together, and his breath fluttered over Bond’s neck.

“Perfect,” Q whispered in his ear a few minutes later, when his breathing calmed. “Thank you.”

Bond’s low, satisfied growl was as close as he could get to courtesy. He held Q tighter, until a slight flinch made him recall that Q’s back was probably bleeding.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the need to let go of Q so they could both get cleaned up and tended. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t like being carried,” Q responded, unhooking his ankles and sliding free. Bond held him automatically, steadying him.

Brushing a hand through Q’s hair was becoming an automatic reaction. “Take your time,” he said, refusing to think about it tonight. He’d get Q into the upstairs bathroom to check on his back. Aftercare without the physical closeness they’d shared in bed earlier sounded perfect, keeping the context of the weekend neutral. Letting Bond find his equilibrium.

“The neighbours,” Q said, his voice still light and distant. He shook his head and chuckled, and then took hold of Bond’s arm despite his bound wrists, as if they were a couple off to the movies.

Bond wanted to pry Q’s hands off his arm and lead him by his bound wrists or his too-enticing hair — to keep some distance between them — but he didn’t. He just nodded, stripped off the condom, and zipped up his jeans so he wouldn’t kill himself on the stairs. He bent down, scanning the dark ground until he found the plug and condom wrapper that he’d dropped. Then he went for the back door, with Q holding him close the whole time.

 

~~~

 

Q knew he was being articulate. He knew he was walking and giving expected responses, including words, smiles, and appropriate touches. But he didn’t _feel_ coherent. All he could feel was a tingling under his skin and a rush in his ears and his body buzzing as if it were still on fire.

He let himself be pulled towards the bathroom for the aftercare he knew Bond would insist upon providing. Sometimes Q wasn’t sure that he actually needed it; often enough, he tried to dismiss his partners to crash on his own. Many of them did as he suggested and left so Q could either stare at his marks and revel in the memories or try half-heartedly to drown himself in the bathtub. Either way, the crash didn’t actually last long — a few hours at most — and he woke up the next day no worse for wear.

In this case, he could sense that there was something off about Bond’s response. It had started when Q had taken hold of his arm, and it was still there now, in the lines of tension in his body as he led Q upstairs to the bathroom. Q didn’t know what, if anything, to do about it, so he released Bond’s arm and walked unsteadily into the bathroom to sit on the edge of the tub.

“I can clean up myself, if you’d like to go lay down,” he said calmly, watching Bond’s expression as best he could without his glasses.

Bond gave him a vaguely amused look and ignored the suggestion. Instead, he rifled through the cabinets to find a hand towel, cotton wool, and peroxide. “Or you could relax and let me take care of you,” he said as he ran the water to wet the hand towel.

“If you’d like.” Q had enjoyed himself far, far too much to risk being the clingy sub he’d heard so many doms complain about, so he’d developed certain responses that always left the final decision with the other partner. “But if you’d rather not, I can simply take a bath.”

Bond wetted the towel, turned off the water, and then crouched down on the floor in front of Q, arranging all the supplies. “Will you let me do this, or do I have to gag you to stop you from protesting?” he asked teasingly as he touched Q’s chin and tipped it back to examine his throat. His fingers were surprisingly gentle.

Q swallowed reflexively. “I wasn’t protesting. I was providing options. Don’t think I won’t search for any excuse to have your hands on me,” he said, feeling the skin on his back tingle with the sensation of his head being tipped back. He bit back the desire to tell Bond that he was _bloody fucking marvellous_ and relaxed into the touch.

Bond laughed and traced each scratch gently with the towel, skipping only the spots where the knife’s point or edge had opened skin. There, he used the cotton wool and peroxide, gently dabbing so he wouldn’t reopen any scabs. He never untied the ropes around Q’s wrists or ankles.

“You’ll be wearing long sleeves for a week or two — that or you’ll have to tell people you got a cat,” Bond said as he worked down Q’s arms.

“Have you ever seen me out of long sleeves?” Q asked with a chuckle. He couldn’t help the way his eyes fell shut, the way he relaxed into Bond’s caresses, the way that he was suddenly overcome with the desire to never let Bond leave, to ask to always be held and tended to like this. He held his breath and waited for the feeling to pass, as he knew it would. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t imagine I regret it for a moment,” Bond countered. He pressed Q’s legs apart, making him flinch in surprise at the cool touch of peroxide on his inner thigh. One hand took hold of Q’s knee as he said, “Easy. These aren’t deep.”

“I’m not concerned in the slightest,” Q answered honestly. He really did wish at least some of the lines would scar. Little raised lines of white against his otherwise pale skin, noticeable only if one was looking for them. Bond had given him something incredible, and he hoped that somewhere on his body he’d have proof of it for future reminiscing. “It’s just cold.”

Bond’s hand squeezed comfortingly as he kept tending to the scratches. He moved down one leg to Q’s knee before he switched to the other side, holding Q steady the whole time. “So what other secrets are you hiding?”

“Telling you would be too easy,” Q said with a grin, though his eyes were still closed and his head still tipped back, so he couldn’t see Bond’s reaction. “You have until the end of the weekend to discover for yourself. Anything unlearned remains that way because obviously you weren’t trying hard enough.”

Unlike so many other doms who would’ve taken offence, Bond laughed. “If I try any harder, you and I both might end up at A&E, and then it’s _you_ who gets to explain to M why a Double O is out of commission,” he warned, and ducked his head to surprise Q with a gentle, firm bite to his inner thigh, right above the row of tiny cuts.

Q’s breath left him almost instantly, and he shuddered and leaned over Bond in a completely unintentional arch. Once Bond’s teeth released him, Q turned his head to lick lightly at Bond’s ear. “If you truly believe that, then you haven’t learned anything about me yet,” he warned before sitting back up and resuming his earlier position — knees spread wide, head back, eyes closed despite how much he wanted to seek out a mirror. He only moved under Bond’s touch, finally turning to sit with his feet in the tub so Bond could look at his back.

“Not too bad,” Bond said, laying broad stripes of peroxide across Q’s shoulders. “You won’t be sleeping on your back anytime soon, though. Will that be a problem? I need you conscious in the morning to introduce me to your army of killer frogs.”

Suddenly somewhat overwhelmed — none of Q’s past partners had ever done anything but made fun of him for his pets — Q bent low, letting his head hang between his legs. _Too personal,_ something inside warned. _Too fucking personal._

“It’s fine,” he said concisely, knowing his voice wasn’t giving anything away. “You saw how I like to sleep. It generally isn’t on my back. And the frogs will be thrilled.”

“You’re certain they ate enough? I could call 0014 in. No one likes 0014,” Bond offered, turning to wet the towel again. “Christ, _you_ don’t, do you?”

“He’s a bloody fucking menace,” Q answered without hesitation. “I’d happily chop him up and feed him to my pets if I thought for a moment that they wouldn’t be tainted by his vileness.”

Bond laughed and laid the warm, wet towel across Q’s shoulders. “Keep that there. Did you want a bath? You need the mud off your feet if you do — or if you don’t,” he said, answering his own question. He reached past the shower curtain to turn on the tub tab.

Q hesitated. Baths meant _alone_ ; baths meant a dip in his emotions; baths meant slipping under the water where no one could see his skin or question his desires. “Are you going to join me?” he asked tentatively.

“Just enough to keep you from drowning,” Bond said lightly, apparently not picking up on Q’s concern. He leaned over the edge of the tub, still dressed in his jeans and T-shirt, and splashed water over the top of Q’s foot. They’d stayed mostly on the flagstone up against the house foundation, so Q’s feet weren’t really that dirty. Still Bond rubbed his hand over Q’s feet, from toes to arch, hard enough not to tickle.

“Am I to remain tied?” he asked curiously, swallowing his dismay. “Because that might make washing rather difficult.”

Bond huffed and curled his fingers under Q’s foot. “Who said I’m going to let you wash yourself?”

Unsure how to feel about that, Q didn't answer. He let himself be shuffled as Bond turned off the water and splashed his hand in the puddle, rinsing out the light silt collecting at the bottom of the tub.

“How warm?” Bond asked as he went to turn the water back on.

“I prefer not to look like a lobster,” Q said with subdued cheer.

Bond fussed with the water temperature, and Q could almost think that he was delaying or distracting himself, except that he seemed to put that level of attention into _everything_ he was doing. When he was satisfied, he stood, trailing a hand up Q’s arm to his shoulder. Bond’s attention was like sunlight on bare skin.

They stayed quietly like that for long minutes as the hot water lapped over Q’s feet, up to his ankles, submerging the ropes. When it approached the lip of the bathtub, Bond leaned down again and took his arm. “Here, get out for a minute,” he said.

Surprised, Q rose with the gentle tug of Bond’s arms, carefully stepping over the edge of the tub; though his ankles were bound separately, he still didn’t want to trip over the loose rope. He stood naked in the room unselfconsciously. A small part of him wondered if it were the blindness — being without his glasses was nearly as effective as being blindfolded.

Bond shifted him away from the bathtub and turned him to face the mirror. He took the damp towel, now cool, from Q’s shoulders and dropped it on the counter. “Well?”

Q took a step forward, close enough the mirror to actually see. And _god_ what a sight — light lines decorating his skin everywhere, from the perfectly rough rope marks to the delicate lines drawn by Bond’s blade. He grinned, tracing some of them with his salty fingertips, feeling the sting but not caring enough to remove his hand. He twisted this way and that to get a better view; though none of the marks would stay for longer than mere weeks, they were angry red now and demanded attention. All Q had to do was _look_ and be instantly transported. “Beautiful work,” he said in quiet awe.

“It shows perfectly on your skin,” Bond said just as quietly, his fingers tightening on Q’s shoulders. “You should consider a tattoo.”

“It wouldn’t hold nearly the same interest,” Q said, tracing one of the lines over his collarbone. “Wouldn’t be nearly as beautiful. Ink is crass. It hides the skin.”

Bond looked down, running his fingers lightly over Q’s abraded back. “Mmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully. He pressed his finger against the edge of Q’s shoulderblade, tracing the shape, and turned his nail in to scratch at the very point. “Fuck, you’re just gorgeous, Q.”

Q chuckled, wanting to reach around to pull Bond’s arms around him, but settling for leaning back against him contentedly. “Your canvas,” he pointed out.

He felt Bond tense before strong arms circled him, fingers closing around his forearms, just above the rope bindings. For a moment, feeling Bond breathe deeply against his back, he thought Bond might say something — some response to what Q had said. But he stayed silent, holding Q and staring at his body in the mirror, not meeting his eyes, until he finally said, “Get in the bath.”

Reluctantly, Q stepped out from Bond’s arms and did as he was asked, sliding into the perfectly hot water with a soft exhale. He slid down, sinking into it, until nothing but his face above the water line. He could feel every cut on his body singing, and for long moments, it was too much. Too much awareness of body, too much awareness of skin, too bloody fucking much. He closed his eyes and slipped deeper, focusing on the fact that a shift of mere millimetres would take away his last source of oxygen. He breathed carefully through his nose, slowly and calmly, and waited for it to pass.

Bond kept his hand on Q’s body, holding him back from losing himself in his mind. He didn’t push Q under the water or try to pull him up; he just touched, fingers moving in little circles, until Q surfaced again.

“Thank you,” Q said quietly, letting the touch ground him again, bring him back from wherever it was that his mind liked to vacate to. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, but didn’t try to sink back down.

Bond’s only answer was to start petting him, fingers tracing over the stinging cuts and the unmarked skin between. Q could feel by the way Bond’s finger moved that some of the scratches had swelled up from the hot water. Bond made his way down Q’s body, switching hands — never leaving Q without his touch — so he could turn off the running water. He moved back up Q’s body and settled down on the floor against the side of the tub, leaving one hand resting on Q’s chest. With the other, he started to comb Q’s hair back, leaving trickles of water to run down his forehead and cheeks.

Q let himself float like that, somewhere between useless suspension in both the water and his mind and the perfect grounding touch of a man who had managed to take him apart so thoroughly for long, long minutes. He hoped that Bond’s back wasn’t getting sore from his position against the cold tub and tile, but — oddly enough — trusted him to mention if something were becoming untenable. He let his body relax and his muscles unknot until the water began to cool unbearably.

“May I have the soap, please?” he finally stirred himself to ask.

Bond laughed. “Is that your way of saying you don’t want me touching?” he teased, leaning across Q’s body. Q heard him uncap the soap and squeeze some out.

Q pre-emptively moved his hands up, made heavy by the water-sodden rope, and caught Bond’s hand to press it to his chest. But with words that were light and teasing, he said, “Water’s getting cold. Not a particular pleasure of mine, I’m afraid.”

“Shower, then.” Bond’s hands moved to Q’s wrists, slightly soapy. “Would you prefer to do this alone? I won’t take offence.”

 _No_ , he thought, though he didn’t say it. Instead, he parroted a line he’d been instructed to use long ago: “Your preference is mine.”

To his surprise, Bond tensed. It took a few long seconds for him to say, “I want honesty, remember?” He went back to untying the rope around Q’s wrists.

Q chuckled, trying to cover his sudden apprehension at Bond’s tone. Was it anger? Disgust? Q couldn’t quite identify the nuances, and it left him feeling uncomfortable. “I’d rather not, but I’m afraid I’m a touch-starved pleasure addict, so my choices in that regard aren’t often in the best interests of the dom.”

Bond didn’t answer until he had Q’s wrists unbound, though he left the individual wet cords around each wrist. “It’s my job to decide what’s best for me, not yours. All you have to do is be honest, tell me to stop if you need me to stop, and feel everything.” He looked up from Q’s wrists to meet his eyes, his expression indecipherable. “Understand?”

Unable to think of an answer or even how he felt about that, Q answered with a silent nod.


	9. Chapter 9

Bond woke early as he often did, despite how late he’d finally allowed himself to fall asleep. He lay in Q’s bed, feeling sharp bones pressing against him. _Definitely a starfish_ , he thought, remembering how Q kept waking him in the night to try and sprawl, only to allow Bond to coax him back into cuddling. Bond wanted him to wake like that, held close, to remember even subconsciously that he wasn’t alone.

He told himself it was an expression of his dominance and nothing more. He refused to think about how very, very good he was at lying, especially to himself.

As soon as Q stirred, Bond tightened his arms. He lifted his head to get his teeth on the rope collar he’d put on Q before taking the waterlogged ropes from his wrists and ankles. He tugged gently, just enough to remind Q that the collar was there.

Q froze for a long moment before not so much moving as twitching his wrists, legs, shoulders, and the rest of his body as if testing for mobility or injury. One hand cautiously reached up to feel the collar at his throat, fingers brushing lightly before he returned his hand to lay on the bed. “Bond?” he asked tentatively.

Bond pulled him closer, ready to relax if he showed any hint of pain from the abrasions on his back. “I told you,” he said quietly, in Q’s ear. “You’re mine all weekend.”

Q’s body relaxed almost instantly, and he curled around Bond’s embrace. “Not much for mornings,” he confessed, tipping his head down, presumably to look at either the marks on his skin, or Bond’s arms around him. Though, of course, Bond doubted he could see much without his glasses.

“Coffee, breakfast, and frogs,” Bond said, ducking his head to nudge Q’s hair out of the way. As soon as he had enough skin bared, he bit, slowly and carefully. “Or we can go out for breakfast. See how long you can sit still with a rope harness under your clothing.”

“My preference is yours,” Q said, seemingly automatically, as he yawned and stretched, body going long and taut against Bond’s own. He shuddered when his body was fully extended, then curled back into Bond with a sigh. Bond could feel his body relax again, and hear his breath slow down and even out.

“I’m going to find who taught you that and shoot them,” Bond threatened, though quietly. He wanted to get up and start the day, since he wouldn’t fall back asleep, but he also wanted this side of Q, sleepy and relaxed in his arms — _without_ the damned formulas, though he could work on that later.

“Go for it,” Q said lazily, followed by another yawn. He hooked one of Bond’s legs with his own and pulled him impossibly closer.

Bond hadn’t dressed either of them after they’d showered last night. Now, feeling Q up against him, Bond couldn’t help but wonder exactly how asleep Q really was. He was tempted to encourage Q to wake up, but that was him being selfish, not thinking ahead. He was more interested in having Q well-rested.

So he sighed and pulled Q into a more comfortable — and less intimately urgent — position, reached up long enough to get his pillow closer, and closed his eyes, resting his hand over Q’s chest to let the rhythm of Q’s breathing help him relax.

 

~~~

 

It was easily another half hour before Q stirred again. He’d trapped Bond’s leg between his and wrapped his arm around Bond’s and burrowed down against Bond’s chest, all but disappearing under the duvet. Now, when he moved, Bond lowered his head to kiss his messy hair and said, “Morning? Or do you need more sleep?”

Q stretched again in the exact way he had earlier. “It usually takes me awhile. I tend to fall back asleep. So we’ll see.”

“Keep writhing up against me and we’ll see if you can sleep through me fucking you,” Bond threatened. It was a lie, but it sounded good.

To his surprise, Q laughed. “I have no objections to being fucked while mostly asleep — just make sure you use proper lubrication and stretching techniques first. Otherwise I’m liable to wake up unpleasantly and start swinging.”

Bond ignored the first stirrings of anger. He kept his voice neutral as he asked, “Is it a kink or something expected of you in the past?”

“Not my kink, No.” He stretched his shoulders and sighed. “Are you a coffee or tea drinker?”

“Either.” Bond kissed his head again and wondered if it would be inappropriate to take a couple of hours so he could have a talk with some of Q’s previous partners. He’d even be sporting about it and not bring his gun.

Q rolled to sit up straight, grinning briefly down at Bond before he turned to look for his glasses. “I tend to be a tea drinker myself. I don’t like flying, so I never spent enough time in America to learn to appreciate the taste of coffee. I’m not much of a breakfast person, so I hope toast will do. Though I may have some eggs if you like.”

“Does that mean you’d rather I take you for lunch instead? That might be more distracting, if the restaurant’s crowded,” Bond said, rolling over on his back. He folded his hands behind his head, watching Q with a grin. “Or do you not remember that part of the conversation?”

“We had a conversation?” Q asked with a raised eyebrow. “If I said anything about raspberry hats, ignore it.”

“I offered to take you out to breakfast, wearing a rope harness under your clothes,” Bond said, looking down at the collar. He’d knotted it in place quickly, though with the same care he’d given the first time. “You said my preference is yours,” he added a bit more flatly.

Q settled the glasses on his nose and looked down at Bond, grin slipping slightly. “Of course.” He turned, showing off his marked back as he swung his legs toward the floor.

Bond leaned over and caught him by the waist, sitting up on the mattress at his back. “That’s not what I want, remember?” he asked quietly.

Q sighed. “Most of the time, I know exactly what you want. Where you need to go, what you need to do, who you need to kill or capture. I’m afraid I don’t have the same expertise here, in this situation. I learn quickly, but for now I need guidance. Would you like to stay in, or go out?”

“We’ll stay here. I want to meet your frogs,” Bond said, buying himself time. “Go ahead and use the bathroom. I’m going to throw the ropes from yesterday in the wash.”

Q turned his head and nuzzled at Bond’s neck, kissing it lightly before he stood. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” Then he walked quietly to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

Bond rolled onto his back again and stared up at the ceiling. Q kept acting as if he didn’t want a choice in what they did, but he wasn’t acting like a _submissive_. He didn’t want to _serve_ so much as he simply didn’t want to make decisions — which wouldn’t be a problem if Bond actually knew him, but Q was still a stranger. Truthfully, Bond doubted he’d ever know _anyone_ that well. And it was obvious that Q wasn’t meeting the type of people who gave a damn about him enough to learn him that well.

It wasn’t a problem he could solve. Usually, he was good at putting those sorts of issues out of his mind, but not this time. He _wanted_ to take apart Q’s thought processes and find out not just what he wanted but why. There was just no chance in hell that he’d learn all that in a single weekend, and even less of a chance that there would be a repeat. That wasn’t how Bond worked.

Finally, he told himself to at least pretend he could ignore it. He rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, and started gathering the ropes. He probably should have cleaned or bleached them last night, but after the shower Q had been all but asleep on his feet, and Bond had been too interested in getting Q into bed and in his arms.

Coffee and breakfast would help, even if it was nothing more than toast and eggs. Besides, he really did want to meet his quartermaster’s collection of poisonous frogs.

 

~~~

 

Q all but hummed happily as he went through his morning routine. He brushed his teeth, ran a token comb through his hair (though he knew the effort was futile), and washed his face without actually thinking about it. Then, with the benefit of daylight and glasses, he stared at himself in the mirror.

God, his skin was a masterpiece. He traced the lines he could see — and some that he couldn’t — with his fingertips, breaking open the light knitting of scabs as they started to form in certain places. He didn’t _want_ them to heal yet. He wanted to see them, feel them, for as long as possible.

He didn’t bother getting dressed simply because Bond hadn’t asked him to. He made his way downstairs, still smiling. He didn’t see Bond right away, so he went about heating his cooktop for fried eggs. Fried eggs, toast, and cheese — his favourite breakfast, when he bothered with one at all. As soon as the eggs were sizzling slowly but merrily, he started on the coffee he kept for guests.

Bond came in from the laundry room as the washer started to agitate. He was in nothing but jeans, and he grinned as he looked Q over. “You should at least put on an apron so you don’t burn yourself.”

“I don’t have an apron,” Q admitted with a rueful smile. “Second choice?”

Bond laughed and pulled Q away from the hob, stealing the spatula as he did. “Go put on pants at least. Not a shirt — I want to look at the cuts.”

“Can you be trusted not to burn food?” Q asked with a raised eyebrow.

Bond let out a startled laugh. “About half the time. And sometimes I do it intentionally, but that’s to cover the taste of the poison. You’re not moving,” he added, giving Q a wicked grin.

“Debating punishment versus the merits of unburned eggs,” he said, tipping his head in a mock-thoughtful expression, though he stepped aside for Bond.

Bond gave him a quick, sharp look, and his grin was just slightly puzzled, as if Q had presented him with some strange new mystery. “Unburned skin is my priority,” he said, letting his gaze drop down Q’s body, openly appreciative.

“Burns are very unpleasant, it’s true.” Q brushed his lips lightly against Bond’s jaw, then turned to go back to get pants on. He wondered what had caused Bond’s puzzlement; in his experience, punishment was a fairly useful term insofar as both partners generally knew it meant rough play. Q smirked as he dug around for a nicer-than-average pair of boxer briefs. He had been entirely joking, of course — Q really did hate whips and riding crops — but it didn’t seem like _that_ odd a thing to say.

Finally landing on a pair of black but practically new pants, Q slipped into them and made his way back downstairs. He sincerely hoped Bond hadn’t burned the eggs, but the thought of introducing his pets to Bond had him smiling. Q knew it was probably absurd to be so proud of a small group of mottled red and green creatures that ate crickets and didn’t do much else, but something about them fascinated him. All the technology in the world could burn and it wouldn’t affect them, except perhaps to increase their quality of life. It was strangely gratifying.

“Do you like cheese on yours?” Q asked when he walked back in, heading toward the fridge, pointedly not asking about the state of well-doneness. “Or just toast?”

This time, Bond’s smile was still puzzled but somehow warm, even affectionate. “Cheese is fine,” he said, gesturing over to a pair of plates, one overturned atop the other to keep the contents warm. He picked up a mug and went to sit down at the table, smiling even more as he looked at Q’s choice of clothing. “It really is a shame to hide that body under your work clothes, you know. The harmless, innocent little Quartermaster... I rather like your surprises.”

“That is indeed the point,” Q pointed out as he popped bread into the toaster. “It pays to be underestimated.”

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Bond said, his voice quiet and full of interest. “I’d be tempted to repeat last night, but I don’t want your back torn open. How does it feel?”

With a small sound of triumph, Q located the bag of shredded cheddar in the very back of the over-crowded middle shelf. He held it up victoriously before slamming the door on the fridge, and turned to pile the toast on the plate. “It is splendidly distracting. I can feel every square inch whenever I bend or move. It’s lovely. Butter?”

“Please,” Bond said, sounding amused. “Now we’re definitely going out for lunch. I want to see you try and keep your composure with a harness under your clothes. If it becomes too distracting, I can always find an isolated carpark.”

Q sighed as he brought the plate of toast, cheese, and a dish of butter to the table. “Which sort of definition of composure are we going with here? ‘Outside world’ me is virtually impossible to break, I’m afraid, so perhaps that’s not the best challenge for you.”

“Is that a limit or simply a bit of advice?” Bond asked, watching as Q went back for the plate of eggs.

Q didn’t answer immediately, thinking it through as he divided the meal between them. It was sometimes exhausting to carry around his seemingly flawless persona of competent executive everywhere with him, but it was also painfully necessary. Few things destroyed careers as quickly and irrevocably as rumours, and Q had just enough skeletons in his closet to make it easy for someone who might wish him ruined. Then again, the thought of writhing under the weight of Bond’s control in a public place, in the form of ropes and willing obedience, was a delightful one.

Finally, when everything was served, he looked up into Bond’s eyes. “I don’t do humiliation,” he firmly reminded Bond.

Bond looked at him thoughtfully. “I only do if it’s necessary. You’re safe there,” he said. He took a deep breath, turning his attention to the food. “That’s not a line I’ve approached so far, is it?”

Q stacked the toast, egg, and a light sprinkling of cheese on top of everything, thinking about what Bond had just said. Beyond the formulaic ‘I like to take my partners apart’ speech, Bond really hadn’t given Q any insight into what he liked — and yet, he didn’t want the same trite formulas from Q.

Though Q was tempted to comment on the fact that Bond didn’t actually like humiliating his partners as a small bit of innocuous information, it occurred to him as he cut into his breakfast that it wouldn’t be wise. It felt more like a slip than a confession or conversational opening, so he carefully filed it away and instead answered, “No.”

Bond nodded, sprinkling cheese over his eggs. He picked up his fork and cut through the eggs with a metallic click. “Of course, takeaway for lunch and dinner means you don’t need clothes at all.” He smiled at the thought, glancing across the table at Q. “There’s always tomorrow or Monday to go out.”

“I leave the decision entirely in your capable hands,” Q said cheerfully. “Though I have absolutely no objections to not having to get dressed any time soon.” He took another small bite before getting up to make more tea. “Would you like another cup?” he asked Bond, refilling the electric kettle and flipping the switch.

“Please.” He turned in his chair, watching Q — _still_ watching, with an intensity that made him want to shiver in anticipation. Q wondered if Bond was looking at and perhaps counting or cataloguing the marks on his skin, or if he were being appreciative of Q’s body. “Look at you,” he said softly.

“Would you like to touch?” Q asked quietly, setting his mug down and slowly kneeling next to Bond. He let his head fall forward and wrapped his arms around himself, presenting his back as openly as he was able. As soon as Q came close enough, he touched Q’s waist and ran a hand up over his ribs, where his fingers found the remnants of last night’s cuts and scratches.

“Fucking hell, you’re dangerous,” Bond said with a quiet laugh. His chair scraped on the floor as he turned so he could rest both hands on Q’s back, the touch light but possessive. Q’s efforts to look at his own back in the mirror hadn’t been entirely successful, but he remembered the pattern of vertical lines abraded into his skin. Now, Bond traced them, first with his fingertips, then with his nails.

Q closed his eyes and gave himself entirely over to the sensations. “You know,” Q said quietly. “I have an extremely advanced ability to build diagrams in my mind. An exceptional sense of spatial awareness, they call it. Last night, you were so effective in taking me down that I was rendered completely unable to build one of my own skin.” He pressed back slightly into Bond’s hands. “Exceptional work, James.”

Bond shifted one hand to the centre of Q’s back, thumb pressing down his vertebrae. “Outside again, tonight,” he said thoughtfully. “I could keep you like this all fucking weekend.”

Q nodded, feeling blissfully anticipatory. It wasn’t being outside that did it for Q — it was the random patterns and Bond’s utter focus and attention to detail. But Q didn’t know how to recreate that in his bedroom, so he didn’t bother explaining. Not that it mattered, of course — he had Bond for two more nights, and that was it. Those sorts of details didn’t matter nearly as much as the outcome.

Then, with no warning, Bond’s hand found his hair and pulled sharply, dragging him back. Q grinned as he scrambled upright, delighted to once again be caught off guard. Not many could do that for him. “Finish your breakfast,” Bond said, leaning down to speak softly into Q’s ear. “We don’t need to wait for the laundry to be finished before I can start on you again. I brought more than enough rope with me.”

“What about my frogs?” he asked before he could stop himself as he sat back in his seat. Then he laughed and shook his head, turning his attention back to his egg. “Stupid question. Ignore that.”

Instead of scolding him, Bond laughed. “Yes, I want to see your frogs — as long as they’re not part of a plot to replace field agents with them, for their innocuous yet deadly demeanour. Of course, someone might notice if we had our remote station personnel going about throwing frogs at high-priority targets.”

Q took one last bite, managing to get through half of his egg and toast (more than he normally would have chosen to eat on a weekend morning), and smirked. “They’re not _that_ deadly, I’m afraid. Though I bet it wouldn’t take much engineering to make them that way.” He paused, thinking about the mechanical spy bug he still had in a box up in his room, watching curiously as Bond struggled not to laugh. “Then again, my luck with non-sapiens approaches to spy work has been less than stellar, and I like my pets far too much to risk it.”

Bond finally lost the fight and let out a loud, genuine laugh, setting his fork down in the remains of his breakfast. “God. Q, don’t _say_ that,” he insisted between gasps. “The last thing we need is someone catching you at _Jurassic Park_ -style genetic engineering. Suddenly MI6 is full of bloody dinosaurs.”

Q laughed in return, though it was more in a response to Bond’s amusement than his actual words. He felt delighted, perhaps even a little proud, that he’d managed to bring this out of the typically stoic agent. “Oh, come now. You can’t tell me you haven’t always wanted a pet velociraptor. Imagine the possibilities.”

“Do you know how damned hard it is to find a good dinosaur-sitter in London?” Still struggling with his laughter, Bond got up and brought his plate to the sink. Apparently, he didn’t expect Q to do all the housework on his own this weekend. “They’d get hungry and eat the building manager, and then I’d have to deal with my leasing company.”

Q stood and brought his own plate to the sink. “As if I’d leave such an obvious loose end for you to tie up on your own. Have you explored the tunnels around the new Q Branch? I’m certain I could find a nice cosy section to act as a kennel.” Q flicked the switch and watched the remnants of breakfast disappear. “Would it be a kennel? Coop, maybe?”

“Pen,” Bond guessed, turning on the water to rinse the plates. “One of those ones with an airlock style entrance and a barred roof. Oh, there’s a thought. I could use it as an excuse to get myself a house, so they had a nice backyard to play in. Eat pigeons. Salesmen,” he added with an evil little snicker.

“Don’t forget the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Q added with a shudder as he took the rinsed dishes and set them in the dishwasher. “Answer the door half-naked once, and you’re marked for life.” He didn’t add that he actually had a pair of fuzzy purple handcuffs stuck in his pocket at the time. He’d been young, after all, and some things didn’t bear repeating.

“After 7/7, I kept answering the door armed,” Bond said wryly. “ _And_ naked on more than one occasion.” He dried his hands on a tea towel before he got behind Q and wrapped an arm around him. He ducked his head and nipped at Q’s throat above the rope collar. “Show me your frogs,” he said, before snorting with laughter again. “Christ, that’s a horrid innuendo. Thank god I meant it.”

Q chuckled and pulled Bond into a quick kiss before he turned and led the way to his living room. It was set completely off to the side from the staircase, with a short hallway separating it from the foyer. As far as living rooms went, it was relatively sparse, with a large flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, a tangle of gaming consoles below it, and one absurdly green, but absurdly comfortable, couch set in front of it. The walls were decorated with more random photographs from his parents, though these had a theme of plant life and water. He had a massive bookshelf filled with sci-fi books and coding manuals on the left wall, and a massive terrarium, full of aquatic plants, sand, and water on the right.

“The plants are all alive, which is a challenge, but they look quite lovely,” Q said, walking towards the metre wide glass tank. He traced a finger along the glass in front of the sandbank, proud of how it sloped perfectly from providing a small beach to disappearing under the water line. There were rocks, a fake wooden bridge, and a filter that doubled as a waterfall in the back left. Crickets hopped about here and there, sending waves of movement through four palm-sized amphibians who were mottled red and black on the stomach, and green on the top. “And they’re not actually frogs — they’re fire-bellied toads — but I’ve called them frogs since I was a child and the habit is tough to break.”

“They _look_ poisonous,” Bond said, leaning close to the tank. “The brighter they are — isn’t that the general rule?”

“I’d thought about getting poison dart frogs instead of these toads, but dart frogs are only poisonous in their natural habitat. No one _really_ knows why, beyond the simple assumption that it’s a chemical reaction caused either by something in their environment or something in their diet. I could have a whole tank full of those tiny beauties instead of these, but they’d be harmless. But these guys produce their own poison no matter what environment they’re in, and they kill everything they touch in the tank eventually. They’re not deadly to humans, but if you hold one long enough and neglect to wash your hands, you’d get a very unpleasant stomach ache.”

“I’m surprised you only have the four — or did they eat the others while growing up? I can see it now — miniature frogs lying in wait under the bridge for an unsuspecting sibling to pass.”

“There have been more on various occasions,” Q confessed with annoyance. “But whether it’s my own poor frog management skills or stealthy revenge attacks by eight-legged beasties from hell, I can’t ever seem to keep more than four alive at a time.” He shrugged. “I’ve admitted to my failings in that particular area and have moved on.” He turned to look at Bond, wondering how foolish he must seem to the agent. Bloody frogs. It suddenly seemed ridiculous.

But Bond seemed interested, looking around the tank without any of the subtle signs that he was indulging Q’s ridiculous hobby. He ducked a bit more and asked, “Why aren’t they eating the crickets? Don’t tell me they actually stop when they’re not hungry anymore, unlike certain bloody Accounting Departments when someone brings in donuts on a Friday.”

Q laughed, thinking the comparison was fairly apt. “They stop eating whenever they’re not hungry, even allowing the crickets to hop on their faces without complaint. It’s a very odd predator/prey relationship, if you like to watch that sort of thing. I buy about a dozen every three or four days. They end up eating most of those, though I do spend a fair amount of time fishing dead crickets out of the water.” Q made a face. “I really wish I could put a complementary animal in there that _would_ eat dead crickets, but the poison the toads leach kills bloody everything.”

“So long as you don’t resort to genetic engineering as the solution to all of life’s little problems, you should be safe from having your name cross my desk,” Bond teased, standing up. He pulled Q into his arms and accused, “Mad scientist that you are.”

“Was it the hair that gave it away? You haven’t even heard my evil laugh yet.” Q asked with a grin, pressing himself close to Bond, selfishly taking advantage of the heat of Bond’s bare skin.

Bond didn’t hesitate to nip at Q’s ear. “Mmm. This hair. You have no idea how good it feels,” he said, lifting both hands into Q’s hair, clenching them into fists to pull his head back. “It’s like you were made to be fucked,” he muttered against Q’s throat, licking along the raised scratch he’d drawn with his knife.

Q exhaled sharply, fingers gripping tight on Bond’s waist. He tipped his head back, making it easier for Bond to get to the whole red line, and tipped his hips forward in the process. _Fucked by you, maybe_ , he thought, recalling the many times his former partners had made fun of his hair.

“We’re not doing this with the frogs watching. Fifteen minutes,” Bond said, nipping over the scrape. “Go upstairs, use the bathroom, whatever you need to do.” He let go of Q, combing his fingers through his hair one last time, and stepped back.

Q smiled and made his way upstairs.


	10. Chapter 10

Q was flying. Not the horrible, thousands of feet above the ground, no way of escape or saving-yourself sort of flying, but the kind where a deceptively simple configuration of rope stripped away the real world, leaving only Q and his body and the feel of ropes and hands.

He’d fought, giving in to his body’s natural instinct to rebel, but the ropes had held him just like Bond’s embrace each night. As soon as they pulled him off his feet, he’d struggled and thrashed in instinctive fear until Bond’s hands soothed him. Slowly, he’d relaxed, giving in to the bondage until the tide of fear ebbed into slow, cautious exhilaration. He was safe — he was safe and controlled and free of gravity. And when the blindfold covered his eyes, he nearly forgot to breathe, because it was _perfect_.

And now, sixty-eight hours later, on their last afternoon together, Q _understood_ what Wren had been saying — not that he could think it in such words, but the feeling was there, as if Bond had taken the last sixty-eight hours to learn _everything_ about Q, only to unleash all that knowledge at once.

The ropes shifted, and Q didn’t have it in him to be afraid, because he knew Bond was there. He felt something soft under him as his weight was slowly lowered down. The bite of the ropes shifted and eased. Then he felt the soft, ticklish touch of ropes going slack, sagging against him.

Bond began loosening only some of the coils, gently straightening Q’s limbs, rubbing at muscles that were strained and sore but not hurting. His touch burned with warmth; his fingers found every last ache. By the time Bond turned Q over, he was still wrapped in ropes but free to move. He felt Bond crawl over him and realised only then that he was lying on a folded pile of blankets over the bedroom carpet.

“Are you still with me?” Bond asked as he leaned down to press his lips to Q’s. He licked softly, almost playfully, before he nipped.

Q wasn’t quite up to trying to verbalise anything yet, so he hummed in happy pleasure and drew his left knee up to rest against Bond’s ribs. His right hand found its way to Bond’s shoulder blade, and he rubbed lazy circles over the skin. This freedom of touch was still an intoxicating delight, and he was going to miss it when it was gone.

Which was any time now.

With a sigh and a slight smile, Q let his head fall to the side. Any time now, Bond would take his rope and his skill and leave for the first and the last time. Q had had far too much fun, and pleasure, this weekend to not feel unhappy with the prospect, but there was nothing to be done about it. Only one thing remained to be asked: Q wanted to be marked. And not something like what he had given Wren — something that would disappear within days. He wanted a longer-lasting reminder of what had been one of the best weekends of his life.

Bond kissed with everything he had, holding nothing back, as if all he wanted to do was kiss until they both died from sheer pleasure. He braced his weight up on one elbow and combed his fingers through Q’s hair with sharp little tugs. His other hand toyed with the ropes across Q’s chest, where Q _knew_ that his weight had caused deep, perfect marks to imprint on his skin.

“You’re amazing,” Q said thankfully when the kiss ended. “Thank you for everything.” He hesitated, scraping his nails very lightly along Bond’s back as he resumed his lazy petting. He decided it was best to ask now, before the necessary act of putting ropes away brought inevitable emotional detachment. “Would you consider a request before you go?”

Bond laughed against Q’s skin before he lifted up, and though Q was still blindfolded, he could sense Bond looking down at him. “Of course,” he said, running his finger along the seam where the ropes pressed into Q’s ribs.

Q didn’t hesitate, grinning up at where Bond’s head must be. “Something small, discreet, and permanent. Design and location your choice.”

Bond didn’t answer right away, and Q fought his body’s natural desire to tense in anticipation; with effort, he kept himself calm, pliant, and relaxed, sated smile never leaving his face. Then Bond’s hand moved from the ropes to the blindfold. He undid the straps and pushed it away, shielding Q’s eyes with one hand to let him gradually get used to the light.

“This — This ends tonight,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “I’m not interested in anything more than this.”

Q huffed with amusement, running a hand through Bond’s hair. “Obviously. Would such a scar be necessary if you were? But you’re aware by now that I enjoy marks on my skin, and the visual representation of an incredible weekend would be” — _painful, wonderful, undeniable_ — “a splendid souvenir.”

Bond exhaled, looking down at Q’s body. He let out a sharp breath that didn’t quite turn into a laugh. “I’ve never _intentionally_ left a scar, Q. If I cut that deep, I’d probably have to stitch it. I don’t want to hurt you like that.”

As tempted as he was to point to other scars on his skin as proof that he knew Bond was lying, Q resisted the temptation. “Deep enough to stitch isn’t necessary. Just choose the location carefully. And don’t worry about hurting me.” Then he smiled lazily again and moved his hand from Bond’s hair to rest between his shoulderblades. “Of course, I won’t ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Something slightly less permanent would be fine.” Though Q had no intention of letting it stay that way, of course.

“And you want to leave it to me to decide what and where?” Bond asked, lifting his gaze to meet Q’s eyes again.

“It wouldn’t be nearly the visceral reminder I wish it to be if you didn’t,” Q pointed out. “I do want to be able to touch it, though.”

After a moment, Bond nodded slowly. He sat back and lifted Q to sit up beside him. As he started untying the ropes, he said, “You know this is entirely illegal, don’t you? And probably...” He shook his head, leaning behind Q to get at one of the knots. “You’re _certain_?”

Several men had made their mark on Q — some unintentionally, some intentionally without permission. This was the first time Q had actually requested it; he didn’t see why it couldn’t be his choice, for once, what kind of reminder he had carved onto his skin.

“Remember what I told you about my ability to form a visual representation, a map or a diagram, of everything in my mind?” he asked quietly. “Think of this as my way to create an access point to it. Your final signature on my canvas. For as long as you want it to remain, of course.”

Silently, Bond nodded again. He continued untying the ropes until, for the first time since Friday, Q was completely free. Q closed his eyes, adjusting to the sudden lack of pressure, letting his mind adjust like a toy boat resetting itself after capsizing. Bond rose and pulled Q to his feet, steadying him. “I need the finest blades you have, and a whetstone.”

Q nodded but stood still for several long moments, not quite ready to test his steadiness on the ground after so much time in the air. He didn’t have many knives, but he did have an idea for what to use: the titanium alloy dive knife that belonged to his parents. He didn’t use it, since he kept it for sentimental value, but it was functionally one of the sharpest knives he’d ever laid hands on.

The knife was displayed on the bookshelf in front of a small photograph of his parents. It was taken in Scotland, where they were standing in front of Eas a’ Chual Aluinn, the highest waterfall in the United Kingdom. Q doubted Bond had noticed the knife or the photograph — well, perhaps not the photograph. He retrieved the black-handled double-sided blade and the sharpening strap that lay under it. Then he fetched a flannel, rubbing alcohol, gauze, and tape from the bathroom, and returned to sit on the bed, setting everything down in front of him.

“Go shower,” Bond said as he picked up the knife. “Scrub very, very thoroughly. Use antibacterial soap if you have it.”

Q sighed at the excessive precautions — they seemed excessive, anyway, considering what they’d been doing all weekend — but he didn’t argue. He left for the bathroom, taking ten minutes (two minutes longer than his average shower) to scrub thoroughly. He came back out wrapped in a towel and stood in the doorway to the bedroom, waiting.

Bond had laid out coils of ropes on the bed. For the first time all weekend, he’d turned on every light in the room. He’d also apparently raided the linen cupboard, for he had a couple of towels on the bed. The knife lay on one of them.

He got up, beckoning Q over. As soon as Q was in arm’s reach, he pulled Q close for a kiss, sliding his hands from Q’s jaw to his hair. Q leaned into it gratefully, throwing himself into the kiss in a way he hadn’t been able to just days before. Over the course of their time together, Q had learned to trust Bond completely — something that was incredibly rare for him. He wondered if Bond had got anything similar from the experience, and if it might mean an improved working relationship if he had. The idea of it had him grinning against Bond’s mouth.

Bond broke the kiss just enough to ask, “Do you still want this? I won’t ask again.”

“Yes,” Q responded without hesitation, hands resting lightly on Bond’s waist.

Bond looked into his eyes for a long, quiet moment before he nodded. “I’m going to tie you so you don’t move. Stand with your back against the corner bedpost.”

Q’s mind and body screamed in delight at the unexpected bonus. He couldn’t help the obviously pleased movements of his body as he did as Bond asked, looking down at his feet to hide his grin lest Bond mistake it for a smirk.

Maybe Bond noticed; maybe he didn’t. At least he didn’t hesitate to pick up the first set of ropes, though instead of going around behind Q to bind his hands, he knelt down and wrapped the rope around Q’s ankle and the foot of the bedpost, looping a few twists between to cushion Q’s ankle and pull the rope tight.

The next rope went above Q’s knee, followed by one at the very top of his thigh. With only one leg bound, it felt was off-centre and discordant, and he struggled to find his balance as his body kept trying to move away from the post. Bond ignored him as he took another coil of rope and started wrapping it around his waist, cinching it almost uncomfortably tight.

Q found that if he turned a bit, he could get his spine settled against the post, though it took a bit of concentration to properly balance. “Good,” Bond said absently as he touched Q’s arms. “Hands up, out of the way,” he directed, winding the next coil around Q’s chest, just under his arms. “Can you breathe without difficulty?”

Q took two deep breaths — one from his chest, and one from his diaphragm. Though his chest was restricted, it wasn’t difficult. The thought that he could probably even have screamed if he needed to flashed through his mind very quickly. “Yes,” he answered.

“Good.” Bond tied off the knot and pulled Q’s hands down behind his back and the post. He wrapped the final rope around both wrists, cinched it tight, and tied the ends. When he came around in front of Q again, he was holding the gauze pads and alcohol. “If you want the blindfold or something to bite down on, say so now.”

Q thought about it carefully, weighing the costs and benefits of using either. He absolutely did _not_ want the blindfold, he knew. The scar was what he wanted, and he’d be damned if he were denied the opportunity to see it being made. Using something to bite seemed ridiculous — Q had a high tolerance for pain, and he didn’t expect that Bond was going to do anything to purposefully cause more pain than absolutely necessary.

“No, thank you,” he finally answered genially.

Bond nodded and crouched down beside Q’s immobilised leg. He ripped open one of the gauze pads, saturated it with alcohol, and ran it over the side of Q’s hip, just at the top of his thigh. When standing, Q’s fingertips would brush against the area with little effort.

Q’s breath caught as he watched — the thin skin over the hip was extremely sensitive, and was guaranteed to hurt. But it was also one of the easiest places to leave a scar.

After Bond dried off the remaining alcohol with a fresh gauze pad, he picked up the knife and the towel. He used one more gauze pad to clean off the blade before he took the blade between his fingers, rather than holding it by the hilt.

The touch of the point made Q flinch instinctively. Immobilised as he was, though, all he could do was twitch; he could barely even shift his hips away. Then the point scraped down, not hard enough to cut, drawing a hot line of pain across Q’s skin, making him hiss. He held still and tried to breathe through the next line, which was almost parallel to the first, joining it at the bottom in a narrow V-shape an inch long.

Bond never looked up at Q. He concentrated, scratching two more lines — one across the top of the V, one from the centre all the way up. Then he sat back, watching Q’s skin react to the irritation, studying the design he’d created.

Q cut off an instinctive desire to tell Bond to finish already; instead, he closed his eyes and breathed, feeling his heartbeat slow again after the initial jolt of adrenaline that had come with the first press of titanium to hip. He brought back the memory of their first night against the house, when the pain and the pleasure had mixed together to give Q the best memory of his recent existence. When he was centered again, he looked down at Bond, sharp and challenging grin in place, waiting.

To his surprise, Bond spent another few minutes just watching the design before he rose without making another cut. He fisted his free hand in Q’s hair and kissed him, brutally hard, biting at Q’s lips until he opened to the kiss. A press of his hips showed Q that he was hard, making Q regret the fact that he still wore jeans.

“God,” Q ground out, struggling against the ropes to chase any pressure he could get from Bond. The shock of pain from the knife had banished any desire he might have felt from being tied to the bedpost, but it seemed as if Bond was determined to draw it out of him anyway. He inhaled to speak, only to lose his words when Bond bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to sting. The hand still buried in his hair pulled even harder, and Bond moved the bite to his throat.

“I thought about fucking you first,” Bond growled as the bite ended. “I’d rather wait. I want you to feel this with every thrust.”

Q thought about Bond’s hand wrapped around his hip, the salt of his skin stinging the wound with every press of his hand. “Fuck yes,” he growled back, trying and unable to meet Bond’s gaze. “Bloody fucking genius,” he said with a low, dark chuckle.

Bond laughed and bit down Q’s throat, each press of his teeth hard and sharp. He dragged his fingers through Q’s hair, pulling strands free with stinging bursts of pain, and moved his hand under Q’s throat to hold Q’s head back against the post. He was struggling to breathe, and when Bond’s teeth found his nipple, his gasp was high and thin.

“You’re not playing fair,” Q hissed, feeling a burn start in the places he was fighting against the rope. But that, of course, was what Q wanted — _needed_ — above anything else.  Randomness. Unpredictability. A course of action that left his brain scrambling in response, catching him off guard enough to keep him in the moment. “You’ve learned,” he growled approvingly, arousal rushing over him in a wave.

But Bond didn’t stop there. He licked and bit and scratched everywhere, following the ropes with his tongue, nipping at Q’s skin, scratching at the inside of his thigh over the faint pinprick-scabs that remained from early Saturday morning, until Q stopped fighting the ropes and surrendered.

He barely even felt the first deep cut. It was sharp and painful but also distant, something his fragmented mind couldn’t quite associate with the beautiful line Bond had drawn in his skin. His whole body was tingling. The second cut was sharper, until Bond looked up at him with lust-dark eyes, and Q could see just how much he _wanted_.

The next two cuts were shorter, hard and deep enough to make Q’s breath hitch. Q watched the blood run from the cuts and saw Bond put down the knife. He picked up a gauze pad instead, ripped the packet open, and pressed it to Q’s thigh.

Q knew that the deliberate press was as much a test of his reactions as it was a need to control the blood loss. His breath caught, and he felt the cold numbness in his fingers and toes that was the result of adrenaline and a perhaps a tiny bit of shock. Q let his head fall back against the bedpost with a hard thump, breath rushing out of him. But he didn’t scream.

He heard another rip, followed by the slosh of liquid. This time, Bond stood up and wrapped Q’s hair around his hand, and Q felt cold droplets from where the rubbing alcohol had splashed over his fingers. Q couldn’t help a choked sob as Bond pressed the cool, wet gauze right over the fresh cuts, staring into his eyes, holding his hair clenched in his fist. The pain of the cuts wasn’t unbearable, but the alcohol pressed into them momentarily was. He clenched his teeth and tried to breathe through it, holding Bond’s gaze like a lifeline, tears slipping down his face.

“Jesus _fuck_ , that hurts,” Q said with broken laugh, refusing to break eye contact. He refused to feel embarrassed — he’d already made it clear that he wasn’t a masochist. This wasn’t _for_ the pain. It was _in spite of it_.

“Breathe,” Bond whispered, holding relentless pressure against the wet gauze. He closed his teeth on the muscle between Q’s neck and shoulder, and he pressed but didn’t bite hard.

Q let his head fall forward onto Bond’s shoulder, then turned his head to nuzzle at the pulse point under his jaw. Despite his calm appearance, Bond’s pulse was racing. Q licked, and let Bond feel every sharp exhale as he struggled to control his breathing.

Slowly, Bond peeled away the gauze, keeping his body pressed close against Q’s. His hand gentled, petting Q’s hair. “It’s done,” he said quietly, dropping the gauze. He moved both hands to Q’s face — one warm, one cold — and kissed him again. “Are you ready for me to untie you?”

“I don’t know,” Q answered with a mad laugh. He thought that if Bond let him go, he might collapse in a trembling heap on the floor.

“I’m going to get tape so we can bandage this,” Bond said. “I don’t want it open and infected. I’m going to leave you here. You’re completely supported; if you can’t stand, you won’t fall. All right?”

Q nodded and watched Bond leave the room. Then he turned to look down at the mark.

It was a stylised knife, smaller than his finger, with a straight-edged blade crossed with a single line for the guard and hilt. It was a deceptively simple design, but by scratching it in first, Bond had managed to make it almost perfectly symmetrical.

Q would have laughed if he had the breath for it. He hadn’t really known what to expect, but he’d suspected that he would end up with some version of a seven. When he thought about it a little more, he realised why that wasn’t likely to ever have happened; cutting his name into Q might have been taken as some sort of mark of ownership, which Bond clearly didn’t want at all. Q was frankly a little surprised that he hadn’t ended up with a simple, small line somewhere — quickly executed, no sentimentality, but still essentially functional.

He was pleased that Bond had chosen differently.

Bond returned and knelt back down to carefully tape layers of gauze over the cut. It hurt, but not nearly as badly as it had before, as if the rubbing alcohol had dulled his ability to feel pain. He knew it wouldn’t last, but for now, it was good enough.

When Bond untied his hands, he realised just how tightly he’d been clenching them. His shoulders ached and his wrists stung from the rope. “I’ll start with your ankle, all right?” Bond asked as he crouched back down. “You can brace your hands on me, if you need. I won’t let you fall.

“Thank you,” Q said quietly, rubbing at his wrists, even as it made the rope burns flare. It was a nice distraction until Q’s body finally decided it was overwhelmed after all. Q rested his hands on Bond’s back, but didn’t use him as support just yet. He waited to see if he really was that wobbly.

Bond untied his leg, which let him get his balance a bit better. Then he put his arms around Q to untie the rope around his chest, taking the excuse to bite at the side of his neck. Q hummed, but the sensation was strangely muted, as if his nerves were so focused on the other damage that the pressure of teeth was considered less significant. “Last one,” he said quietly as the rope fell away, and he moved his hands down to the rope around Q’s waist. “Hold on.”

“You must think I’m silly, being so shaky after something so small,” Q said with a self-deprecating chuckle as he held on to Bond’s arms. Compared to what Bond had gone through, the damage was practically insignificant.

“The last time someone tried to carve a design into me, I got back to my safehouse and threw up,” Bond said with a laugh. As soon as the last rope fell free, he wrapped Q in his arms and half-carried him to the bed. Once he had Q sitting down on the edge, he tugged the duvet up over his shoulders and asked, “What would you like?”

 _You_ , Q thought immediately, but managed not to say it. “Can you put away the rubbing alcohol? The smell is...” Q grimaced. “It’s unpleasant to me right now.”

“Stay here. Don’t try to get up,” Bond told him, wrapping the blanket more tightly around him before he bent down to gather up the alcohol and gauze. He took the knife when he left the room. Q heard him flip the bathroom light switch, followed by the sound of running water.

Q let himself sink into the mattress and closed his eyes to better catalog the sensations. Rope marks, knife marks, teeth marks, fingernail scratches. It was too much, and yet so much more perfect than Q had ever expected to get from anyone. He let his hand fall on his leg over the knife, feeling the added burn of pressure, and smiled. It would be permanent, Q thought, and if it ever started to fade he vowed to himself that he’d mark it open again.

Bond came back in carrying only the knife. He put it and the sharpening strap on the shelf by the photo, glancing at the picture for a moment without comment. Then he returned to the bed and laid down beside Q, pulling him close.

“Saying anything seems inadequate,” he said quietly.

“Will you let me get away with thanks?” Q asked cheerfully, winding his arms around Bond’s.

Bond laughed. “I feel like I should be the one thanking you. No one’s ever asked for that before.”

“Their loss.” Q’s fingers were still cold from the adrenaline reaction, so he pressed them into Bond’s warm skin. “Do I need to do anything special to clean the knife?”

“I cleaned it for you.” Bond got his arm under Q and rolled onto his back, abruptly pulling Q and the blanket over himself. “You need to leave the bandage on. Don’t shower until tomorrow morning at the earliest — tomorrow night, if you can hold off that long and not scare your department with how your hair looks,” he teased.

Q settled gratefully on Bond’s chest, tucking his frozen toes against Bond’s ankles. “Sounds like the strategic application of cling film, tape, and my detachable shower head might be in order.”

“Not tonight, unless you want me to help. Tonight, you’re staying in bed.” Bond rubbed his hands up Q’s back, pressing the blanket in tighter around his body, and looked up at him. “Do you want anything? We can stop now, if you’d rather rest. That wasn’t easy for you.”

“Or for you,” Q pointed out. “So thank you again. And hell no, I don’t want to stop. This is my last chance with you. I’m going to take advantage of it.” Q didn't move just yet, though, too happy in Bond’s arms to be dislodged. The endorphin and adrenaline rush had been intense, and Q was crashing from it now. For the first time in a long time, he wanted nothing more than vanilla sex — though he wondered if it would still count as such considering the foreplay.

Bond laughed quietly. He lifted his hands to Q’s hair, though instead of pulling, he combed his fingers through as if trying to tame the strands. “Anything you want, Q. This time it’s your choice — even if you want to fuck me instead.”

Q lifted himself enough to stare down at Bond in shock for a long moment. He couldn’t bring himself to answer, however, simply because he didn’t know the answer yet. So he took advantage of the moment to lean down and kiss Bond.

Bond returned the kiss without pressing Q for an answer. He closed his fingers around strands of Q’s hair and tugged softly, holding Q to the kiss.

“I have an even stranger, perhaps more demanding, request, if you’re up for the challenge,” Q said finally, letting his hand wander down Bond’s stomach. He looked into Bond’s eyes, fingers scratching at Bond’s waistline lightly.

Bond smirked. “I said anything. Let’s hear it.”

“Gentle,” Q said, finally breaking the gaze. “As insane as that sounds.”

Bond held Q close and rolled back on top of Q, tangling them both in the blankets. He was careful, Q noticed, not to put any pressure on the fresh cuts. “Not insane at all,” he said, before he grinned with sudden humour. “So, I should call Alec, then?” he teased.

Q laughed. “I think it’s best he be kept in the dark about what we did tonight,” Q said with mock seriousness. “I’m embarrassed to say he seems a bit protective of me.”

“I told you, we like you. We’re not going to break in another Quartermaster. You have years of putting up with our shit,” Bond warned, leaning down to kiss Q. This time, it was slow and gentle and careful, with Bond taking his time to explore Q’s mouth as if this were their first kiss. He drew back only enough to say, “I want you to tell me if there’s something you want or don’t want. Understand? This is for you.”

Q nodded and reached up to pull Bond back down on top of him, not even bothering to tug at the fasteners at Bond’s jeans yet. He indulged in the freedom of touch that the ropes had often denied him over the weekend, hands freely exploring scarred, tan skin, only to come to rest on Bond’s shoulders, delighting in the feel of skin and muscle moving over bone.

Bond nipped gently at Q’s throat and licked over the curve of his ear. He shifted his weight to his right arm so he could reach down with his left, unbuttoning his jeans for himself. “Give me a hand, will you?” he murmured, making the task difficult for them both by pressing his body close to Q’s, rather than simply standing up. He licked Q’s ear again before he caught the lobe between his lips with another soft nip.

Q reached down, but still didn’t go for the flies yet. He dipped his hands under the waistline of the jeans, tucking his cold fingers into the dips of Bond’s hipbones. “You’re in unfairly good shape,” he said quietly, chuckling as he brought his knees up to cage Bond’s body. “Roll me on top.”

With a little laugh, Bond slid an arm under the small of Q’s back. “Careful of your hip,” he warned, and twisted around again, making an even worse tangle of the blankets. The move was effortless, and Q thought back to Friday night, when Bond had so easily held him pinned against the back wall of the house.

Now it was Q’s turn to scrape teeth against skin, and he didn’t deny himself. He leaned down over Bond’s chest, kissing and biting gently, scraping teeth without leaving marks. He paused long enough to look up only long enough to warn, “Tell me if I do something wrong.”

Bond lifted his head to smirk at Q. “Try not to pull a weapon on me, and you’re already one step ahead,” he teased, folding his arms comfortably behind his head.

“Smug bastard,” Q said with quiet affection before moving further down Bond’s body. It was tempting to go fast, to see if he could get a glimpse of breathlessness under the iron control that Bond always seemed to have over himself, but he didn’t want this to end too quickly. So he traced scars with his tongue and hands, mouth exploring every inch of Bond’s chest and stomach, pausing occasionally to rest his forehead on him, hair brushing skin, breathing slowly over a spot he’d licked just to let Bond feel his breath.

He felt Bond’s hand again, fingers sliding into his hair, though there was no effort to grab hold or guide him. Bond’s breathing was a touch more rapid. He didn’t hold back his responses or the way he twitched under Q’s touch.

“Feel free to deal with the jeans,” he hinted, his voice a bit lower, more intent.

Q complied without a response, mouth following the faint line of hair over Bond’s stomach and down, hands moving without hesitation to release the fasteners and the zip. He didn’t pull the jeans down immediately, but pushed fabric aside to slowly continue his exploration. Bond’s hips weren’t nearly as sharp as Q’s, but Q could still feel the jut of bone as he dragged his teeth at the very edge of where fabric met body. Bond’s exhale was a bit sharper this time, and his fingers twitched over Q’s scalp.

“The next step would be to take them off entirely,” Bond said, shifting his hips under Q, though he didn’t otherwise move.

Q hid his grin at Bond’s low, rough voice as he moved his hands away from the zip to slide between the waistband and Bond’s lower back. Helpfully, Bond lifted his hips, and Q was momentarily distracted by the proximity of his too-flat, too muscular stomach. Q pulled the jeans and pants down in one firm but slow motion, taking only a quick few seconds to roll off Bond’s body to remove them entirely, letting the fabric fall to the floor without a second glance.

“Satisfied?” Q asked in a low, amused voice as he crawled back up, stopping occasionally to lay kisses or gentle nips on Bond’s calves, knees, thighs, and stomach. The fringe of his hair fell over his eyes when he made it back to eye level, and he wondered if he looked slightly mad as he leaned down for another kiss.

Bond’s wordless purr was his only answer. He wrapped his left leg around Q’s right, carefully away from the bandage on his other hip, and pushed up against Q’s body. “You feel much better like this,” he answered. “But if we move up, we can actually lie properly on the bed instead of sideways, and get you under the blankets.”

“Because shuffling is so sexy,” Q said with a quiet laugh, though he moved to the side, letting Bond reposition them. He didn’t let Bond tug the covers over them yet, though, as he moved down again to kneel between Bond’s legs, bent over his stomach. He licked and sucked at the hipbone again for a long, indulgent moment before he looked up at Bond, who was watching him intently.

“I don’t think sexy is anything you need to worry about,” Bond said quietly. “Don’t stop.”

Q smiled, perfectly content to still be given orders, lavishing attention on the sensitive skin around Bond’s hips, thighs, and groin. Finally, he nuzzled the base of Bond’s cock, pausing to wait for an objection.

“Q...” Bond twisted away, reaching for the bedside table where they’d stashed condoms. He opened the drawer and threw down both condoms and lubricant.

It was with reluctance that Q took the condom; he disliked and feel of taste of latex in his mouth. “Is it necessary?” he asked, running a light tongue along the shaft without letting his mouth get close to the head yet.

Bond hesitated. “You know my files,” he said uncertainly. “Hell, you probably read Medical’s reports more than I do.”

Not as a matter of course, Q thought, but he had read the latest round in preparation for the weekend. Bond was clean, and Q lay the condom back down on the bed quickly. “For this, we can leave it off.” Q reached up to grab Bond’s right hand and placed it in his hair, then focused his attention entirely on Bond’s cock, licking and teasing, testing pressure and speed to find what made Bond gasp.

Somehow, Q wasn’t surprised that Bond preferred fast and hard over slow and ticklishly light. At first, Bond managed to keep the hand in Q’s hair politely gentle, until Q’s experiments began to pay off, and when he sped up and pressed hard with his tongue, Bond’s hand clenched as though unconsciously.

“Fucking Christ, Q,” Bond muttered, giving a sharp tug down, encouraging Q to take him deeper. Q reached for the lubricant as he slowed his movements so he wouldn’t choke when he sank far enough to take Bond’s cock into his throat. While Bond swore even more and tensed as if fighting not to thrust up into Q’s mouth, Q unsnapped the cap and poured lube messily into his hand. He sucked lightly when he brushed his fingers gently over Bond’s entrance, not pushing yet, but lightly massaging.

Bond pulled up his legs, flattening his feet on the bed. “Go slow,” he said roughly. “It’s been a long time.”

Q reached up to squeeze Bond’s free hand with his own in acknowledgement. He refused to speculate on why he was being permitted to do something Bond didn’t often allow. He’d gone into this weekend knowing damn well that emotional complications would not be tolerated.

Q worked excruciatingly slowly, going from massages to one finger over the course of what he thought was at least ten minutes of careful attention. This wasn’t something Q was often allowed to provide his partners, and as he slipped in the second finger, he hoped the muscles of his jaw would hold out long enough to finish.

Abruptly, Bond pulled hard on Q’s hair, saying, “Stop. Just — give me a minute.” He tugged Q away from his cock before relaxing his grip and petting Q’s hair back. “Why didn’t I do this earlier this weekend? God, your mouth, Q,” he said tightly.

Q pulled his hand free and moved up to cuddle in next to Bond, catching up on breathing. He tucked his head into Bond’s neck, grateful for the break because it would extend their time together just that much longer. “You never asked,” Q pointed out quietly, voice rough from taking Bond so deeply.

Bond laughed and got his hand in Q’s hair again to pull him around for another kiss. “I was under the impression it was something you didn’t like. You’re _very_ good, though.”

“I generally dislike how —” Q paused running a hand hard over Bond’s thigh “— roughly unpleasant it can be. In this case, I’m quite enjoying myself.” He looked up and smirked at Bond.

“Not anymore, you’re not, or we’ll be done far sooner than either of us plans,” Bond warned, playfully shoving Q’s hair up out of his eyes, only to have gravity pull it back down again. “We shouldn’t do this with you on top, though. I’ll hurt your hip.”

Q closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, the thought of Bond on top of him both deeply arousing and terrifying at the same time. “I didn’t actually want to fuck you, James,” he admitted quietly. “I wanted you to come in my mouth while my fingers were pressed inside you.”

Bond toyed with Q’s hair again and smiled. “Which part of ‘anything’ did you miss? I’m not going to bloody well argue with _that_. Just don’t expect me to last,” he warned.

Q nuzzled again at Bond’s neck, testing his gratifyingly quick pulse, before sliding back down again. “Good,” he said with quiet amusement. “I don’t think my jaw can take too much more.”

“Use your other hand,” Bond said, brushing his fingers through Q’s hair. Wryly, as if sensing Q’s objection before it was uttered, he added, “I’ll let you know if it’s not enough.”

That would have defeated the purpose entirely, so Q simply ignored it. He licked a hot stripe up Bond’s inner thigh before kissing the tip of his shaft. “No thank you,” he said. “Just... gentle,” he reminded Bond. Then he took Bond in his mouth again, this time without hesitation. He worked his tongue in perfect rhythm with his sucks and strokes, returning only one finger back into Bond.

Bond let his head fall back with a groan. He caught at Q’s hair, barely avoiding a sharp pull, and tensed his legs, though he didn’t thrust up into Q’s mouth. “Oh, fuck, Q.”

Q let Bond slide as deep into his throat as he was physically able to, then moaned long and deep, knowing how the vibration would feel. He brushed his finger inside Bond, searching for where the prostate was hidden behind layers of tissue. Bond gasped, hand going tight in Q’s hair, when he finally found it, and so he did it again, timing his deep throating technique, his moan, and the gentle press of the prostate to all happen at the same time.

“Oh, fuck. Fucking hell, Q.” Bond pushed against Q’s hand, feet pushing hard into the blanket. “Christ, don’t stop.”

There was no risk of that. Q wanted this, wanted to see Bond be the one to come undone for a change, wanted to feel him shudder and cry out in a vocal demonstration of how good Q could be. Finally ready to finish this last encounter, in no small part because of the ache in his jaw, Q brought his free hand to Bond’s balls and rolled and pushed gently as he repeated everything, then did it again and again until Bond couldn’t hold back anymore.

The only warning Q had was when Bond’s balls drew up tight and his hand clenched. Q moved faster, licking harder, and Bond let out a sharp groan shaped like Q’s name as his body clenched hard around Q’s finger. Bond’s cock was buried so deep in Q’s throat that there was no point in pulling off — he didn’t even taste Bond’s release, which, frankly was his favourite part of that particular technique. He pulled back gently, tongue massaging slowly as Bond shuddered under him. When the last tremours of orgasm passed, Q pulled off entirely, crawling back up to drape himself over Bond.

Bond petted Q’s hair and wrapped a leg around him, careful of his hip. “My turn, if you’ll give me five minutes to catch my breath.”

“There’s no rush, and you’re not obligated. Your hand would do, in the state I’m in,” Q said with a laugh, curling tightly around Bond. He was achingly aroused, though the pain in his hip kept him from getting too close to frustration. He kissed Bond’s ear and rubbed slow circles over Bond’s chest, feeling his heartbeat and breathing.

“I’m not _obligated_ to do anything but die, and even that’s more a guideline than a rule,” Bond corrected. He twisted onto his side and got his hand between their bodies, fingers teasing up over Q’s cock.

“If you can stand to, go slow,” Q warned, blood suddenly humming in his veins. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s.... I won’t last.”

Bond laughed and kissed Q, pushing him onto his back. “I can drag this out for hours, if that’s what you really want,” he threatened, backing down Q’s body with a trail of kisses and licks until he was settled between Q’s legs. Then he looked up the length of Q’s body and asked, “What about you? When’s the last time Medical lured you in?”

“After I was caught in the blast at MI6,” Q said after a moment of contemplation. “My R&D lab shared a wall with BioChem, so they thought it best to give me a thorough scan to make sure the shrapnel that caught me wasn’t contaminated, and have done every few months since just to be safe.” He stared down at Bond thoughtfully, wondering if Bond ever did this for anyone. He doubted it, but chose not to say anything. His one-weekend stand was perilously close to a crush as it was. “I don’t expect it. It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Bond scolded sharply, reminding Q of their dinner on Friday night. “Have you been careful since?”

“Yes,” Q said reluctantly, half tempted to say ‘no’ just to give Bond an easy out.

Bond’s smile was almost feral. He didn’t hesitate to press his tongue to Q’s cock and lick up, slow and hard, all the way to the tip. He cradled a hand under Q’s balls and teased one finger back, asking, “Did you want...”

“God no,” Q said with a chuckle. “Then I absolutely wouldn’t last.”

Bond growled thoughtfully and swiped his tongue around the head, holding the base gently enough for support. He licked up again, first on one side, then the other, before he raised up enough to take Q into his mouth and ease slowly down.

Q groaned and closed his eyes, clenching his fists in an effort at distraction. It really had been too long since he’d experienced this, and the pleasure was intense. “I won’t move,” he choked out in an attempt to be reassuring.

Bond laughed, sending shocks of pleasure through Q’s body, and lifted his head. “Go ahead. You won’t hurt me,” he said, and this time when he took Q’s cock into his mouth, he pushed all the way down, swallowing and working with his tongue between breaths.

“Oh, god,” Q groaned, giving a tiny, experimental roll of his hips before he could stop himself. Bond’s fingers pushed up on his unmarked hip as though encouraging him, so Q did it again, breath catching at the shocks of pleasure running through him. A brief moment of curiosity distracted him as he wondered if it were the sensation itself or the freedom of movement that was so damn erotic, but Bond’s tongue on his cock was far too delightful for Q to be distracted long.

So, hesitantly at first, he gave in, pushing his hips up, feeling the stab of pain twisting with the pleasure, reminding him that he’d carry this mark — this tangible reminder of the weekend — and the thought pushed him that much closer. He held still, only to twitch up again when Bond tightened his fingers, making the cut twinge, starting the cycle all over again until his self-control snapped. He clenched his fists in the blankets and braced one foot so he could thrust clumsily up. Bond growled — not for him to stop but in pleasure — and the knowledge that Bond _wanted_ this proved too much.

Q came with a muffled shout that he buried in his fist, the pain and pleasure mixing together to bring an orgasm that wasn’t better or worse than their earlier efforts — merely different. Perhaps for the first time, Q allowed himself to feel some hint of emotion beyond appreciation or basic affection, and it tainted the experience slightly. Too many personal boundaries were being crossed here, and as amazing as it felt physically, it was emotionally difficult.

When Bond gently pulled away, Q hid his cognitive dissonance in his attempts to catch his breath. “You’re fucking amazing,” Q repeated, panting slightly, in a refrain that had become his most frequent response to Bond’s skill. “That was incredible. Thank you.”

Bond crawled back up the bed and pulled Q into his arms. He hummed but said nothing as he combed his fingers through Q’s hair. He followed with a kiss to Q’s bare forehead before his hair fell back into place, tickling at his eyelashes. Allowing himself one final indulgence, Q wrapped himself around Bond, trying to press as many of his marks — especially the cuts — against Bond’s skin as possible. He buried his head against Bond’s shoulder, relishing the sting of the cuts on his inner thigh in particular. He pulled one of Bond’s hands to rest lightly on the gauze at his hip and chuckled to diffuse his own heavy thoughts.

“Tired,” he said by way of explanation, keeping his voice light and amused. “Hope you don’t mind my temporary reversion to starfish.”

“Not at all.” Bond laughed and kept combing Q’s hair. “You’ve been wonderful, you know.”

“Thanks,” Q said, settling in with a smile. “Though you did all the work. Bloody fantastic, exhilarating, amazing work. I’m afraid you might have set the bar a little too high this weekend.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

 

~~~

 

Q refused to watch Bond leave, afraid he’d do something stupid like want to shake his hand. He’d helped him pack up, held open the door, and gave him a genial goodbye complete with a quick and light farewell kiss. Then he closed the door and locked it before Bond had a chance to make it to the curb and promptly ran up the stairs to his shower.

He didn’t care what he promised Bond — he needed to relax and wash and let the calm heat of an unending hot water supply soothe him into normalcy. Bond’s file all but officially declared that he leaned towards sociopathy, making it impossible for him to form real emotional connections with people. Not that Q believed that — he knew about Vesper, after all — but it was a mantra that he repeated to himself as the hot water turned pink as it ran down Q’s body.

Q knew all about neurochemicals and sex and the closeness of partners after shared adrenaline-producing experiences. Right now, he knew damn well that his system was flooded with oxytocin, vasopressin, and endorphins that kept him floating on a cushion of emotional investment. He comforted himself with the knowledge that they would soon evaporate, allowing him and Bond to work together flawlessly again when they returned to work.

Meanwhile, Q sat on the floor of the shower and pretended he would make it wash away faster, draining away like the remnants of the blood on his skin.

 

~~~

 

Bond tossed his duffel bag into the footwell, put the overnight suitcase on the passenger seat, and drove away, steadfastly refusing to look back at Q’s house. He’d spent three days getting under Q’s skin and into his head, learning every last secret to unravel Q’s self-control. It was normal to feel his absence like the ache of a missing limb. It would fade, leaving him with the pleasurable memory of a long weekend.

Perhaps that was it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent this long with a partner. Friday through Sunday night might be the wisest limit. And instead of having to drag himself to work tomorrow morning, he would’ve been able to sleep in (not that he ever did), do laundry (though he’d done most of it at Q’s house), and relax (though he couldn’t remember feeling more relaxed in his life).

No more three-day weekends, he privately resolved. And now that he’d had Q, he wouldn’t have to think about his quartermaster and wonder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the encouragement and feedback!
> 
> And there IS a sequel! It's already written and in the hands of our fantastic editors, so we promise, it'll be up soon!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for Bound by BootsnBlossoms and Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/730196) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)
  * [Equilibrium](https://archiveofourown.org/works/756711) by [FlutterFyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlutterFyre/pseuds/FlutterFyre)




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